


Summoned

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Is it a flashback when you don't know what it means?), ASMR - Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, Accents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguing, Awkwardness, Bible Quotes, Biting, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Breakfast, Brexit, British Politics, Class Differences, Class Issues, Combat, Constraint, Daddy Issues, Danger, Dialect, Dialogue-Only Passage, Dirty Talk, Disguise, Dominance, Double Entendre, Eavesdropping, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Exposition, Feed Your Exhausted Lovers!, First Aid, Flashbacks, Food, Frank Discussions, Français | French, Guilt, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hiding, Hyperacusis, I Don't Even Know, Indecision, Inspired by Music, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Logic, M/M, Mediaeval Weaponry, Mild cyber stalking, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, Multi, Multiple Partners, Music, Neck Kissing, Neurodiversity, Nominative Determinism, OT3, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outrageous Flirting, Panic Attacks, Past Lives, Phobias, Plot, Politics, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn With Plot, Porthos is taking no shit, Power Outage, Propositions, Psychedelia, Public Display of Affection, Race, Rants, Rating May Change, Rescue Missions, Rimming, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Scots Dialect, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Sneaking Around, Stealthiness, Stereotypes, Strategy & Tactics, Swearing, Synaesthesia, Tea, Teasing, Threats of Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Undressing, Verbal Dominance, Waiting, Watching Someone Sleep, Whatsapp, badassery, emojis, i mean really slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-11-22 10:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 76,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: Oliver Montague is a troubled man. But never mind that – he wants to know why certain music has such a vivid effect on him, giving him bafflingly familiar flashes of insight into another life. During a routine visit to a local museum, events and people coalesce quicker than anyone might have expected.(Or: I am blocked in writing mycurrent seriesand I’m giving way to a plot bunny whichdoesn’truin the publishing sequence of said series.)





	1. In Concert

**Author's Note:**

> I will tag in the music where I can find copies of it online for you to enjoy (or ignore) as you like.

Oliver rolls his shoulders and tilts his head from side-to-side to work out the tension of a morning hunched over a computer that mostly seemed to consist of a series of big, white spaces saying “Well…?” While he’s not sure he approves of having to stand up for this, he supposes it’s not really the museum’s fault – there are only so many folding chairs you can lay out for an audience and still fit the choir and instrumentalists in without starting to impinge on the more delicate exhibits. Standing to listen to music has him back at the Students’ Union, nodding to the beat, beer in one hand, hoping no-one was going to notice the earplugs and give him a hard time. He should look on this as an opportunity to work on his posture, and he’s not about to turf the more frail (or punctual) listeners out of their seats just because he’s worried about… well…

Then the conductor strides on, nods to the audience, sweeps the musicians into keener miens, and tick-tick-tick-ticks the opening beat with bare, pale hands. It’s a spare start, but the texture of the instruments is both rich and precise, exactly right for the music. He has a moment to consider that, for once, using older instruments is working well rather than sounding deliberately naff, before being swept under.

It doesn’t always happen, but something about the factors today – and he’ll consider them later, properly – has him awash in something that’s a step beyond the kind of synaesthesia that normal music summons in him.

[It’s a bransle](https://open.spotify.com/track/4hv4gSReiLPslcKbsQ8wdt) – simple and precise, no need for a caller when you have so many cues in the music itself – and Oliver sees the dancers circling, bowing, turning, hears the creak of the floor beneath their steps, the concentration layering the enjoyment on their faces. The hall is a little dusty, light still coming through the few windows (late summer?), and sweat springs out, adding to the scent of wood and wine, straw on the floor and a couple of rushes burning on the wall. Tallow, not beeswax. He knows enough to know that this, the muted colours of the dancer’s clothes, the roughness of the table under his hand, mean that this is not a court, more a country gathering of common folk. The wine is a little sour, but not as bad as he’d feared. He–

The bransle stops, and he’s pulled away, breaking into belated applause on automatic pilot.

He knows no-one will have noticed, but he can’t seem to help the kind of shifty glance around that withdrawing from such a deep submersion prompts in him. Mostly what he sees are the usual suspects – well-to-do white folk in a variety of smart casual, and few of them under fifty. He knows he regularly passes for older, partly since his expression is routinely parsed as, well, nowadays the beard and suit seems to say “stern” to most people, and that suits him fine, if he’s honest. Better than the “surly” that his teens and twenties projected.

As the choir stand and [bounce into something surprisingly chirpy](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Zkh2MnKxlaIkgUko3geeE), he notices that he’s not, in fact, the youngest person here. Sat on the back row of chairs are a pair who are clearly a good decade or so younger than him. Something about the tension in them strikes across what he supposes he’d call the _chord_ of the rest of the patrons. At first he assumes them both women, but the breadth of the shoulders on the right-hand one would seem to belie that, silky though the collar-length hair is. He’s also far further towards the casual end of the clothing spectrum, unlike the woman with the extravagant curls sat next to him.

_Sat_ isn’t right either. Too relaxed a word. They’re somehow both leaning towards and away from each other, fidgeting while stock still, he decides. They clap dutifully for the end of the piece, and Oliver makes an effort to put them out of his mind, imagining how they’d react if they turned and saw him gawking.

The choir move onto something [somewhat more dolorous](https://open.spotify.com/track/5B4E5nQ6oNrR9ytKDmHwSu). Determined to focus elsewhere than the couple in front, he lets the synaesthesia have full sway. It’s not as if he can switch it on or off at will, but he can let it come to the fore more. For some reason his brain is only seeing this one as “normal music”, but it’s still enough to pulse coloured lines across him, allowing him to confirm that yes: this is a five-part piece. In a group this size, this makes a soloist out of one of the tenors, and he wonders at the conductor’s choice. Maybe someone is off sick.

That soprano (second soprano last time) is ever so slightly sharp, he thinks, can see where the colour of her notes is a more lemony shade than the rest. Wait. No, everyone else has gone slightly flatter, which is depressingly normal. Maybe she’ll pull them up a little? Or give up and sink to join them? He finds himself smiling, then covers with a frown – his Latin isn’t fantastic, but he’s willing to bet that several of the audience around him will know full well why a smirk is an inappropriate accompaniment to these lyrics.

And then the conductor announces the next piece with a jovial “Look out for the chickens!” Those in the know give that particular kind of academic chuckle that makes his throat itch – it’s made to be heard and admired, an in-group flag of “_I_’m smart enough to know why this feeble joke is funny, _actually!_” – and then the music snatches him and drags him under.

[This time it is full daylight](https://open.spotify.com/track/4avPNbmKfQNJiPu9TpEMov) and he is stood against a wall, one foot tucked behind him, arms crossed, while the choir warble and chuck their rustic onomatopoeia to his left and he scans the room, gaze never stopping long. The high ceiling catches the notes and rings them across a gorgeous array of decoration and decorated patrons. Some smile and bob their heads to the rapid beat, while most chatter, sew, or play draughts. An older, more plainly dressed man catches his eye, gaze sliding down his body with a raise of eyebrow. He untucks his leg slowly, face as impassive as he can make it, moving his hands to his hips as the man smiles slightly, turns away to murmur something and his hands are flying off his hips to applaud, blinking in diffuse, peculiar light, wondering why his waist feels odd, and where’s his fucking sword?!

He shakes his head, scratches at his scalp rapidly, face screwed up. That was an intense one. He pats his pockets, suddenly convinced he’s lost his mobile phone, but of course he hasn’t. He nearly rolls his eyes for his own foolishness, shuffles, easing the slight cramping in his legs. He’s going to walk home later, he decides; he’s clearly less fit than he thinks he is.

At least he hasn’t fallen over. He wonders, briefly, if this is the equivalent of dropping acid in public, in the middle of the day, and surely a normal person (with his abnormality) would do this kind of thing decently at home, using expensive headphones and a comfortable chair, but there is, of course, the other reason why he’s here, courting his fear of public embarrassment.

The rest of the recital passes without much in the way of incident for him (although the second soprano continues ever so slightly sharper than the rest), with only the vaguest and briefest of those immersive impressions assailing him from time to time as the ancient instruments stroke their reconstructed texture across him. He shuffles his circulation up a notch between pieces, occasionally eyeing up the pillar just ahead and to his left as a leaning post, imagines it turning out to be purely decorative, the sound it would make, the looks on the contained faces dropping open around him.

He spots, and wishes he hasn’t, that the couple in front have their hands clasped, tight and miserable between the seats and below them, crammed in what must be a very uncomfortable twist. Every so often one of them will flick a desperate glance off the performers and onto the other’s profile, drinking it in. He feels like a voyeur, tries to look away, keeps looking back, wondering how that feels – that hunger, that drive beyond any kind of safety to just touch. He thinks he knows. He both wishes he knew better, and that he didn’t.

Just in time he flips his own gaze up to the conductor as the man turns his head a little further to his left, as if he can feel the touch of Oliver’s regard. He berates himself yet again for not getting here earlier, picking up a programme if he couldn’t get a seat, giving himself something to do with his hands, his gaze, when trying to distract himself from his other distractions.

[And then Byrd rolls over him](https://open.spotify.com/track/7J6b58JOnf4RGGqJmxq0bD), ducking him in the cool of a darkened… cathedral? They are practising and he is prowling, mapping, taking a moment, though, to drink in the notes that fly, plucked up to extraordinary heights by stone shaped by long-dead hands and minds. The music matches the words so tightly – celebration and mourning all in one. Ave Verum Corpus – hail true body, listing the gruesome things that happened to it, to him, a sob of exultant pain. And part of him is disgusted, part soothed, part despairing, part resigned. He passes the light of the chanters and on, through the chill breath of old stone, locked forever from the day’s warmth, into the dark where he belongs.

Christ. He deliberately wrenches himself out of that one as the choir winds up into the terrible, beautiful throb of the final stanza: _Oh sweet, oh holy, have mercy on me_…

He scrubs the heel of his hand hard over his forehead before joining in the applause. It’s an odd one to end on, but end they do, filing out on a nod; back, presumably, to their own studies, their own day jobs. To his mild shock, if not his surprise, the pair in front of him uncouple to applaud, stand, and immediately head in opposite directions.

He should probably be going himself, back to his sarcastically blank screens, but he’s only fooling himself if he thinks that the music is the sole reason for coming here.

On his way downstairs, he picks up a programme that someone has left behind, folds it into his pocket. Part of him wants to know, to catalogue which pieces have him hallucinating across all senses, to calculate the pattern. Another part dourly tells him that it’s likely impossible. Another tells him that it doesn’t matter. And this is the part, he suspects, that has him coming back for more.


	2. In Order

He knows his way there very well, and takes the austere, stone steps of the back way down at a respectable (or slightly faster than respectable) speed, swings a left through Arts of the Near East, and strolls, slower now, into the Armoury, where his heart rate steadies and his mind clears a little.

He’s never so much as held an unloaded gun in his life, his experience with knives is purely culinary. He can barely imagine hitting someone unless provoked far beyond the bounds of normal behaviour, shies from the thought, and yet here feels, if not like home, then the strangest kind of familiar. Of course, he’s been _here_ so many times now, it would be a wonder if it wasn’t.

This is a good time of day – not many people here, and those who are, are quiet. He’s hazy on school term times, but doesn’t think about it any further than: _good, quiet_.

He still finds himself unconvinced by the armoured riders caught in petrified and petrifying acrylic trot among the patrons. Yes, it makes it more dynamic, and of more interest to any children, and it’s not like curious fingers can bring any harm to the plate, but it’s definitely unsettling. Maybe it’s supposed to deter the more casual thieves. He does as he always does – a small circuit to find out if there’s anything new. He’s never sure if it’s a relief or a disappointment when nothing’s changed. He knows he’s postponing the inevitable. He knows he enjoys the build-up.

He knows there’s a strong possibility that he has a problem.

An older man is in front of the case in question, bent over, reading the card very slowly, as far as Oliver can tell, so he gives him space and wanders over to _that_ suit of armour, trying to push his reactions, get past or through or whatever that slight panic at the idea of being so constrained, how his breath would resonate in his ears, bounce back at him with the visor down. In his peripheral vision someone is approaching the armour case and he automatically shifts sideways slightly, politely.

The other visitor, however, continues to look, not at the display, but at him.

“Hi!”

“Er, hi,” he says, raising puzzled eyes to the man.

“I know you.”

He shakes his head, tight-lipped, gaze sliding. “No. I don’t think so.” And yet…

“No, I _do_.” He frowns. “I think. Oh!”

Despite himself, he turns towards him, eyebrows raising politely, cursing himself even as he does.

“Are you famous?”

Oliver can feel his brow knotting, a headache starting to form as he twists back to stare at the case of daggers above the armour, some pitted so deeply that it’s hard to imagine that they were ever functional things. “No.” He knows it’s rude, knows it’s the kind of bluntness he’s been warned about before. “No,” he murmurs, museum quiet, trying to soften this, “I’m no-one.”

“Now _that_ I find hard to believe.” And the man’s voice is so warm that it startles him into another shift of gaze.

A smile greets him for that. “Hello. No, you’re not no-one. And I’ve nearly got it, I think. It’s those eyes. And the voice. Not sure about the rest. Good beard, though.” The man’s own facial hair is, well, it’s what Oliver might consider doing if he had a great deal more time on his hands every day. Or different priorities, he reflects. The moustache in particular is a thing of beauty, twin sweeps of elegance above a proper goatee. Not just ‘shave the cheeks so it doesn’t look quite like heavy stubble’, but something with three-dimensional shape. The smile itself is shaped like a child’s picturebook depiction – unlike Oliver’s own, which often seems to head off in odd directions that, when stressed, he can’t even tell what it’s doing until he catches someone’s mildly horrified gaze. _His_ beard is camouflage – this man’s is…

He takes in the tweed jacket, waistcoat (in July!), pinkish shirt, necklace, impossibly skinny trousers, and surprisingly practical shoes, well, boots. Beautiful voice, an elusive but musical accent. A whole card catalogue of ready smiles. No, this isn’t camouflage, this is… plumage.

A raised eyebrow and quirk of amusement acknowledges the sweep over his attire. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

“Not… really…”

“No, you are. I have the context now, the category, I just need to narrow in on the particulars.” He gestures at his own head, hair too long and far too wild for anything anyone Oliver works with to consider, but thankfully not up in a tiny bun. For some reason the buns confuse him. He’s weirdly relieved to see fewer of them these days. For a vivid moment, he’s running his hands through the thick, wavy strands, gathering it to see that, yes, it’s long enough – just – to be tied back.

He blinks. The man has been talking. “Sorry – what was that?”

A sideways smile. “I said: it’s like an old attic up there – full of everything a body might need, but any old which way. Needs a thorough filing. I usually find what I want, just might take me a while. You have written a book though, haven’t you.” It’s not a question.

Oliver curses silently. “Yes.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Not fiction though. No.”

“No.” He sighs, tries to turn away properly. “I’m sorry, I just–”

“Oh, but you don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“No?”

“No.” His mouth does something complex – not quite a smirk, but like a secret he’s hoping to share. He nods as his eyes dance across Oliver’s face, then leans back slightly as if to take in a larger view. “You came for the lunchtime concert, and you’re still here. It’s a Tuesday, and you’re not rushing off.” He leans forward again. “You haven’t checked your watch or your phone once, and, well, I’d say your body language was relaxed, but it’s not now and that’s on me. Ah. Sorry.” He does look genuinely remorseful, a swift slide from his earnest smugness, and Oliver, who was about to launch into a sarcastic takedown of the man’s technique, finds himself puffing out the breath he’d taken to do so and grimacing in that awkward way he has, trying to say: _well, yes_ and _thanks for noticing_ and _I don’t know what to do now_ all in one expression, but suspects it just looks like a scowl.

“Let’s start again,” says the man after a long, silent moment between them, both shuffling and peering at the exhibits and each other in quick bursts. He holds out a long hand. “Henry. Professional talker, amateur nosy person.” His hand is warm and surprisingly firm, the skin smooth, a perfect match for his voice. Oliver shakes it with pleasure. “And you are?” prompts Henry.

“Bollocks.”

Henry blinks, clearly trying to suppress his smile to polite proportions. “Unusual.” His voice shakes slightly. “How are you spelling that?”

“I mean… Well. Fine. Oliver.”

“Not Ollie?”

“No.”

“No, I suppose not.” The man is _still_ smiling, dark eyes crinkling around the edges.

“Not Harry?”

Henry shudders. “I may not be a big fan of my own name, but I do draw the line somewhere. Besides, with _my_ surname, it would sound ridiculous.” Oliver stares. “Which I forgot to mention, seeing as we’re such good pals already.” He rolls his eyes, and Oliver understands that it’s at himself. “Darian. See?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Fond as I am of assonance…” and Oliver wonders why that’s made the man _twinkle_, “it would just be ludicrous, and then even the few people who _do_ persist in taking me seriously would be forced to concede defeat.” He sighs. “You _were_ at the concert earlier?”

“Er.” He suspects that keeping up with Henry’s grasshopper mind would be a full-time job for anyone. “Yes…?”

“Lovely, wasn’t it?”

“Mmh.”

“That soprano, though.”

“Hmm?”

“You know.”

“Oh, the,” he nearly says _yellowy_, “sharp one?”

Henry’s eyes narrow and his head cocks to one side. “That’s one way of putting it.”

His own narrow in return. “I strongly suspect we’re talking about different things.”

“No doubt. Well, I’ve clearly taken up enough of your time. I should leave you to it…”

It’s a question. Oliver _knows_ it’s a question, he’s not that dense, but… well… what if he’s wrong? He’s been wrong before. Being wrong, he thinks, is bad.

He opens his mouth and nothing comes out, casts his gaze away furiously, clamping his mouth shut. Henry says nothing either, just lets him wander off.

Scowling, head down, he does his usual loop through the ground floor exhibits – the one he uses when he’s telling himself he’s just here to visit the museum, to settle his mind with things both familiar and interesting. He finds the ground floor more to his taste in general – he can’t touch the items, but finds the concepts of their textures, weights, and sounds against his skin very satisfying. His shoulders duly loosen and his forehead uncreases as he makes his circuit.

In the doorway between Far Eastern and Korean Arts, he pauses, mutters: “Assonance. _Ass_onance. Bloody hell.” Shaking his head and smiling, he heads into the dim resonance of jade and clay, soothed by the precision of long-dead hands, piqued by the idea that an attractive stranger might have been suggesting scandalous things to him.

He’s peering with pleasure at what he suspects is his favourite celadon – intricate and only lightly glazed, uncoloured and unassuming – when he hears someone clear their throat softly and turns politely to his left to make way for another enthusiast only to find Henry gazing at him again.

Right.

“I. Er. I wanted to say sorry.” Henry’s eyes close in a long blink during this, which he interprets as the man _not_ wanting to say it, but doing it anyway, which he finds himself approving. God knows apologising to people you _like_ is hard enough… “I made you feel awkward and, well, okay, actually that probably was part of what I was intending, but not. Hmm. Look, I was a bit of an arse, and I was wondering how I could make it up to you.”

Oliver frowns politely. “That’s okay. I mean: yes, I felt awkward, but I feel awkward most of the time anyway, so…”

Henry outright smirks at that. “That’s the spirit,” he murmurs. He turns smoothly with a brisk flick of the eyebrows towards the case. “So. What are we looking at?”

Oliver turns with him. “Goryeo dojagi. Mostly celadon – that’s the greenware,” he points, “and the, um, the glazed stuff.”

“Why this one?”

Oliver blinks for a moment. “I really like it. The texture of it. Someone put a lot of time into it. A lot of…” he sees the word coming, lets it, “_passion_.”

“Passion.”

“Mmh.”

“Oh! I confess: I never really thought about it like that before. Looks a bit, you know: fussy, and precise. Not passionate.”

Oliver frowns. “You think passion is only present when it’s big and messy? Shouting and flailing? Look at it! No amount of money could induce someone to produce something this painstaking by hand, of _course_ it’s passion.”

It’s Henry’s turn to blink. He wonders how loud he got. “No, I get it,” he replies, slowly. “It’s a paradigm shift for me, that’s all. They’re never comfortable.”

Oliver acknowledges this silently and they gaze at the precise passion of the openwork for a while.

As he straightens, Henry comes up with him. “Where next?”

“Um.”

“I mean: if you’re happy with my company.”

Happy. “Um.”

“Okay, let’s bypass the awkwardness – would you like to take a break from the glaze and grave-robbing with some coffee? With me?”

“‘Grave-robbing’?”

“I suppose that’s more the really ancient stuff, but, well: not all of this was bought fair and square from the original owners, let’s face it.”

Oliver stares stonily at him.

“Coffee? Tea? Cake? I can make up for ruining your day?”

“Ruining my day is a dramatic way of putting it.”

“I’m a dramatic kind of guy.”

“I’d never have guessed,” he drawls. But he’s still looking him in the eye, still talking. He’s not sure what that means.

Henry smirks at this. “Anyway, there’s still time…”

“For what?” he asks, dutifully.

“To ruin your day.” His brows rise in the middle slightly, his eyes widening, looking a little like a naughty child. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Just coffee. Or tea. Maybe cake. Just that.” An eyebrow arcs and the child is gone. “I promise.”

Oliver bristles, feels his face go still.

“Oh, come on,” says Henry, seemingly unperturbed by what someone once called his Resting Assassin Face. “I don’t bite.” A theatrical pause. “Unless you’re very good.” His head cocks to one side. “Or _bad_, of course.”

Oliver finds his eyes rolling, a grin surfacing he hadn’t entirely prepared for. Henry’s flirting is so ludicrously blatant it’s either like breathing to him, or an act to soothe people.

“Fine. But you’re paying.”

“On a humble academic’s salary?” He lays a hand on his half-unbuttoned chest, and Oliver _really_ wishes he hadn’t noticed that, the few fine whorls of hair springing free. “Hah. But maybe you can persuade me to go Dutch with you.”

“You never stop, do you?” And, with that, he’s already softening, already moving, already decided.

Henry notices. “Actually?” He makes a show of considering. “No. Come on.”

And Oliver follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things I have anticipated researching for writing Musketeers fanfic, [12th Century Korean pottery](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goryeo_ware) would have been low on my putative list had I, in fact, made one. The plot bunnyhole is _deep_, folks.


	3. Inspite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: contemporary British politics and other cultural references.

Half expecting to be dragged to Fitzbillies across the road, Oliver is pleasantly surprised to be politely ushered next door into the small queue at the museum café, where Henry orders a strong and astonishingly unelaborate coffee for himself, an Earl Grey for Oliver, and an iced confection so sticky it needs to be levered off the board with an audible effort. Henry smiles at his plate with unabashed glee, and sucks a sugary thumb seemingly absently while fishing out his bank card.

“Fancy anything?” he asks.

“Er.” He’d quite like a scone, but that seems a bit much to add to the _humble academic_’s bill.

“We’ll leave it for the moment,” Henry advises the woman at the cash till, taps his card and wheels off with what looks very like a wink. Oliver scrunches a mildly apologetic look at her, and she smiles on a slight roll of eyes. Henry seems to have that effect on everyone. He lifts his cup and teapot and sets off to find his companion.

While Henry manages to sprawl in the hard wooden seat, gazing up at the massive windows that lead back into the long gallery, sipping at his coffee, Oliver inspects his tea, judges it ready, and pours. The scent eddies back to him and he smiles for it, looking up to see that Henry is still looking out and away.

He clears his throat. “I’d have thought you’d have wanted to be outside.” The North Lawn café, clattering with tourists.

“Hmm?” He returns his gaze. “Oh. Well, yes, but I assumed you’d prefer to be indoors.”

He’s right, but Oliver doesn’t understand how he knows that. He looks down at his hand, pale and lightly freckled from long-ago summers, contrasts it to Henry’s smooth tan, the olive fingers wrapped around the white cup. Maybe that’s it.

He’s speaking. “Sorry?”

“Lived in Cambridge long?”

“How do you know I’m not from here?”

Henry leans forward, as if imparting a secret. “Well, you don’t have the accent, for a start.” Oliver still doesn’t know what the Cambridge accent is – it mostly sounds like a soft London one to him. “I mean: obviously educated, to say the least, but you’re not from around here, as they say. And so few of us are, originally.”

“Us?”

“Academics.”

“Okay…”

“JBS, yes?”

“Yes.” His Business School badge is in his pocket. On the other hand: he’s in a suit, a good one, and obviously at leisure on a Tuesday afternoon in July.

“Thought so.” Henry looks a little smug. Oliver suspects that it’s a familiar expression for him. And yet he’s infuriatingly likeable.

“Obviously,” he assays. And Henry’s smile sharpens a little before he looks away again, contemplative, has another, longer sip of his coffee. Oliver tries his tea and thinks about scones. Maybe a sandwich.

“So anyway…” Henry’s gaze has returned. He sets down his coffee.

“Yes?”

“You _are_ famous.”

“I’m really not,” he murmurs.

“_Fall of an Empire_.”

An empty, cold space, dark enough to trip into forever. He clings momentarily to the underside of the table. Collects himself. Bugger. “Yes.”

“Which makes you Oliver Montague.”

He feels his left eyebrow rising. “Last time I checked.”

Henry acknowledges this with a broadening of his smile, but his face soon drops back to the more contemplative one, head tilted lightly as he pushes his coffee cup back and forth gently on its axis. Oliver feels like he’s being studied. It’s not an altogether comfortable feeling, but it’s also all-too familiar.

“You were on _Newsnight_.”

“Ages ago.” His mouth scrunches to one side. “Is that how you remembered?”

“Hmm?”

“Who I am – _Newsnight_?”

“Ah. No. Yes. Eventually. Okay, _basically_, I asked one of the people who was staring at you in European Pottery and then I did some Googling. Reminded myself.”

Oliver feels himself colour.

“You _are_ famous…” this time it’s more of an explanation.

“I’m really not.”

“Online you are. In this city you are. And probably Brussels. In Leeds too, I imagine.” Oliver glowers. “The riot?”

“It wasn’t a _riot_.”

“Hmm. Protest?”

He sighs. “Protest is about right.” It was hard to tell who was the loudest – those who agreed with what he’d written or those who denied it. Both had turned up to the Question Time venue in surprisingly large numbers. Well, surprising to Oliver, anyway.

“What does your” _please don’t say father, please don’t say father_ “department think of all this?”

“Oh. Well, the publicity’s really good for them, apparently. They had to operate a waiting list for my last set of lectures.”

“Good Lord.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t know who I’d have to sleep with to have that kind of popularity for _my_ lectures.”

“Sexual nepotism aside, I don’t know how it works in the rest of the University, but apparently writing a book that most people would never dream of even picking up, let alone reading–”

“– and including a chapter that condemns Brexit in the strongest of terms…”

“No,” explains Oliver, “they wouldn’t let me use the terms I _actually_ wanted to use – something about profanity not being as big a seller in the pop economics sector as you’d imagine.”

Henry chuckles outright at this, face creasing, teeth flashing, and Oliver suspects that this is the first time he’s seen him laugh in a non-performative way. He also finds himself thinking that it’s something he’d like to see a lot more of, before clamping down on that thought. If he’s learned anything in Cambridge, it’s that flamboyant clothing, extravagant gestures, and a flirtatious manner do not have the same kind of correlation as they do in Sheffield.

He buries his face in his teacup, enjoying the aroma for a moment. Scents aren’t colours in the same way as sounds are, but they settle something in him. Good smells, anyway.

“Bergamot.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been trying to remember: the thing that makes Earl Grey that distinctive…” Henry waves his left hand exasperatedly, “thing.”

Oliver tries not to smirk, but apparently fails.

Henry pulls a wry face at him. “Yes, well, we don’t all have your way with words.”

Oliver shrugs. “It’s all about the graphs, for me. If I can make a graph of it, I can explain it.”

“And that’s the whole book.”

“Pretty much.” He pauses, wanting to ask, but wondering how to say it in a way that’s casual enough without coming across as sarcastic.

Henry anticipates him. “I have read it, actually.”

“Have you?” He can’t keep the surprise out of his tone, though. “I just mean: it doesn’t seem like your–”

Henry waves him off. “Okay, more accurately: I _own_ a copy.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tablet-sized device in a brown leather cover. “Kindle. Basically: I did what most people probably do and skipped to the Brexit chapter.”

“Right.”

“Do you ever look at your Amazon reviews?”

“Not any more.”

“Ah.”

“Why?”

“I was the person who called it ‘The economics equivalent of _A Brief History of Time_: everyone has a copy, some people have even read it all the way through. Very few people actually retain any of it.’ Or words to that effect.”

Oliver is amused. “Considering I expected about…” he raises his eyes in theatrical estimation, “two hundred people to ever read it in its lifetime?” He returns his gaze to Henry’s, “I’m happy with that.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

The grasshopper has bounded left again. “Who?” he asks, as patiently as possible.

“Hawking. He was surprisingly easy to bump into.”

“No. Once saw what I later worked out was the back of him, heading away from me, but I was on my way to a– to somewhere and running late.”

“You don’t strike me as the running-late type.”

“I think I’d surprise you.”

“You already have.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s it like?” Henry’s leaning forward again, eager, coffee shunted aside.

“What? Surprising you?”

“Hah. Being famous. Sought after.”

Oliver’s eyes narrow, slide. “Listen,” he says, earnestly, “it’s not like you think. I wrote a book about the state and trajectory of the British economy over the last four centuries, and I included a lot of the stuff I’m passionate about–”

“Apart from Korean porcelain.”

“Apart from Korean porcelain.” His gaze flicks back to Henry and away again as he says: “And I talked about inherited wealth, taxation, and how we’ve supposedly shifted from a feudal society, but how – especially in how we set up what was going to be America – we kept that going, but called it different names. And I dedicated a few chapters at the end to the natural progression into disaster capitalism and, yes, Brexit, and someone – almost certainly one of the marketing people at the publishing house – decided to leak portions of it in a highly colourful fashion.”

“But you were right.”

He sighs. “I think so, yes.”

“And either way, you went viral.”

Oliver quirks his driest expression at him. “A very fulfilling experience.”

“Did you know there’s a meme gif of you from Question Time?”

Oliver closes his eyes for a long blink. “I do now.”

“You know, I once had Neil Gaiman reTweet something I sent him. Over a thousand likes. The dopamine hit was intense. But you had mil–”

“_Unlike you_, I never asked for this level of attention. Which, thank God, has died down now.”

“But you kept the beard.”

“It’s a good beard, apparently.” But clearly not concealing enough…

Henry smirks, leans back in his chair again, and stretches, various joints popping to his obvious satisfaction. He smiles wider, half-closing his eyes, and Oliver is reminded of nothing so much as a cat, squirming pleasurably in the sunshine. He frowns that image away.

Henry’s eyes ease open again. “So a change of topic is in order?”

“Yes please.”

“Go on then.”

Right. “Okay, er… why are you here, O Fellow Academic?”

“Cambridge, or the Fitz, or this coffee shop?”

“I think they call it a café.”

“And _I_ think it doesn’t matter. But I’m intrigued that it matters to _you_. That _passion for precision_ again.”

Oliver refuses to be drawn. He won’t win this game, after all. “The Fitz, then.”

“Would you believe me if I said the concert?”

“No. Not unless you could name three of the pieces, or two of the composers. Or even the choir, or one of the musicians.”

“But you already know that I can’t name any of the musicians, or I’d be annoying one of them over overpriced beverages instead.”

“Or maybe your intended target is sitting at one of the other tables and I’m your beard for the afternoon.”

“Oho! It bites!”

“No,” he hears himself saying, “you haven’t been bad enough yet.”

“Oh _my_…” Henry is _delighted_. He feels himself flush but refuses to look away, sending what he hopes is _challenge_ and _humour_ the other man’s way.

“Go on then.”

“Go on then _what_, sir?”

“Why are you here?”

“Ah.” And Henry’s face does something a little strange. It takes Oliver a long, cold while, to realise finally that he’s looking, of all things, _embarrassed_.

This is obviously not an expression he’s familiar with bearing. Oliver turns away slightly as he clearly marshals his thoughts. He wouldn’t want anyone scrutinising him under such circumstances, after all.

He looks back when Henry clears his throat, raises his eyebrows and nods gently in a _Well?_

“I, er. I like the Armoury.”

“Why?” it’s sharper than he likes, but the other man, surprisingly, doesn’t bridle at it.

He shrugs, a smile on him too desperate to be as airy as he’s attempting: “It’s, um, hm. The weapons. They do something to me… Not like _that!_” as his eyebrow rises. “Oh, this is going to sound properly mad…”

Oliver leans forward over crossed arms. “Try me.”

“Alright.” He puffs out an awkward breath. “Once, when I was little, there was a pistol, in a museum in Edinburgh, I think. Maybe Stirling. Anyway, this pistol. This old, Seventeenth Century weapon, all worn around the wood, you could see where it was darker, where it had been held closest, taking the oil of its owner’s hand, still with traces of tarnish along the silver chasing. I had the strangest feeling – like it was, I don’t know… _mine?_” His accent has shifted – only slightly, but it somehow brings Oliver closer into the picture he’s describing. “I knew how the weight of it would feel, how the grip would fill my hand, how it would be to sight along it, fire, the kick in my arm, the stinging scent of the powder: everything. I stared at this thing for I don’t know how long, and the most confusing thing of all was when I moved, just slightly, saw my face in the glass. The gun was right. _I_ was wrong.” He shrugs again. “Like I say: I can’t explain it. And ever since, I guess, I’ve been trying to replicate that. Mostly nothing happens. Sometimes, though…”

Oliver blinks at him for a long moment.

“What are you thinking – come on. Am I crazy?”

“Well,” he replies, slowly, weighing the words, “I’d say you were if it weren’t for the fact that…” he shakes his head.

“No, go on.”

“Okay, first of all I need something to eat. Then I’m going to show you something.”

It says a lot for Henry’s state of mind that he doesn’t leap on that obvious lead, just nods as Oliver stands, picks up his presumably lukewarm coffee, and studies his pastry. By the time he gets back with the first sandwich to hand and a scone that weighs about the same as his phone and wallet combined, the plate is clear and Henry’s tapping away at his own phone. As soon as he’s done with the sandwich, he stands, beckons, and Henry slides to his feet, great-eyed, following without a word.


	4. In Lieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Depiction of panic attack. Drawn from my own experiences, so YMMV. Take a moment if you need to.
> 
> Translations on hover-over and at the end.

“Wow.”

“Mm-hm.”

“_Wow_.”

“Yes.”

“It’s _beautiful_.”

“Yes.”

It’s not. It’s not objectively attractive. Anything fancy that may have been part of the guard or the pommel has long since been knocked off by the vicissitudes of daily use, or pried off by people who felt more excitement about jewels than steel. Anything engraved on its blade has long since been sharpened off. It is battered, scarred, stubbornly straight, weighty, slender, tired, and more beautiful than anything Oliver has ever seen.

“And it’s yours?”

Oliver looks around.

“There’s no-one here,” Henry assures him. “Or no-one with the kind of hearing we need worry about, anyway.”

He nods tightly.

“_Yours?_”

“_Yes._”

“Have you ever…”

“Once, at school.”

“Fencing?”

As ever, when faced with the peculiarity of his school’s provision compared with the rest of, well, everyone else, Oliver feels his shoulders rise – defensive posture, complete with scowl, answers with a “Mmnh” that’s closer to a grunt than he’d like.

“You didn’t keep it up?” He looks up at the renewed twinkle in Henry’s voice and feels his shoulders start to unmantle.

He sends an ironic look his way for the mild double-entendre. “Only half a term. It clashed with chess club.”

“You are _such_ a cliché!”

“What kind of cliché?” His gaze is drawn, hungry, weighted, back to the blade, point down, achingly close, imprisoned in acrylic.

“You know: the rebelliously academic aristocratic son, rejecting all the trappings of nobility while actually–”

“Fine. Fine, I’m a cliché. Happy?”

“Deliciously.”

“Don’t you mean deliriously?”

“Nope.”

They stand for a while, Oliver becoming ever more aware of the sound of Henry’s breathing, the heat of him, friendly against his arm. Normally this kind of stimulus would be irritating, a prickling distraction from his contemplation of his– of the sword. Instead, it just seems to add to the experience, make it less… lonely? Hopeless?

“So, when are you going to get it out?”

“Pardon?!”

“Liberate the blade.” Henry gestures, looks up into his face, all animation. “You are a _terrible_ person,” he adds, shaking his head. “Filthy mind.” Oliver glares. “Okay, fine, you caught me on an actually accidental euphemism. Anyway, what’s the plan?”

“Plan?”

“Yes, plan.” He leans forward, whispers: “To find out if it fits your hand as well as you know it will.”

Oliver stares at him, stares away from him, face crumpling when his gaze hits the hilt as his breathing grows heavy, his chest… full, and his head very… hollow, whistling-light. He swallows, hard.

“You alright?”

“Mmh. Mm-hm?”

“Oliver?”

“Mmh…” a dying note.

“Ah. Okay, fancy coming this way?”

“Mmh?”

There’s a hand at his elbow and kind, warm voice in his ear.

“– just here. My friend’s going to sit down. Not terribly well. Bright lights. You know how it is. Five minutes, okay?”

A mutter from beyond the warmth.

“No, no need for that. Right as rain in five, I promise. Happens all the time. Thank you _so_ much.”

Oliver is coaxed to the floor, back to the wall “just here, okay?”, draws his feet up, rests his elbow on his thigh and his forehead on his palm, breathes like he’s been taught.

_In, two, three four; hold, two; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

_In, two, three four; hold, two; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

His feet slide away a little and he lets them, arm following them down.

_In, two, three four; hold, two; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

He stares at his feet, his arm, starts to reconstruct _relaxed_.

_In, two, three four; hold, two; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, and a solid wall at his back, and the floor. He pats the floor. It’s definitely a floor.

_In, two, three four; hold, two; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

“Honestly, madame, we’re absolutely fine. I’m a qualified first aider. Yes. No. No, I’ll get him to the gents in a minute and he’ll splash some water on himself. Yes, I’ll make sure he drinks some. _Madame_,” and there’s steel, unexpected, the whisper of an inch cleared from a scabbard, “_please_.” And the close air empties of unwanted attention.

_In, two, three four; hold, two; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

He can see clearly enough now to start picking up the scrambled spillikins of senses and sense, holding them in his fist then stacking them more-or-less logically. He stops having to count the breaths in, feels something in his chest unlock and take over, telling him he can concentrate on other things now.

He goes to speak, finds out how dry his throat is.

“Hey, there you are!” He nods. “Brilliant. Let me know when you’re good to get up and we’ll fetch some water.”

He nods again. Smiles.

A sigh. “You know. When you _actually_ smile, it’s almost unfairly good to look at. Rarity value maybe?”

He chuckles, coughs, swallows, sniffs. His eyesight clears properly. Henry is looking at him with an expression somewhere between relieved and sheepish and… proprietary…?

“Can you stand yet?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say yes, he’s fine, that there’s no need for a fuss, all the while pushing to his feet. Instead, he takes one look at Henry’s face, the depth of sincerity there, and shakes his head, settles into his improvised seat. “Not yet. Maybe a couple of minutes?”

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thanks.” The tingles in his hands and throat are dying away, the cold in his guts and chest succumbing to the heat of Henry’s care, which would normally be another insect crawl across his skin, prickling and poking.

When the world inside and out match better, and the urge to move is no longer deniable, he leans forward, tucking his legs up again in preparation, pushes his arm back against the wall. Immediately, a long, tan hand is in front of him, and he braces himself gratefully, hauling himself to his feet. Henry doesn’t pull, just holds fast. It is everything but the flighty, fussy, self-interested performance he might have expected, the sensible boots supporting the flamboyant ensemble.

“Thanks,” he murmurs again, now standing, now a little too close, still holding his hand.

“No worries.” Henry yields his space slowly, a smile dawning over him, eyes still watchful.

“Are you really a first aider?”

“I really am.”

“Something about developing the qualifications to offer the kiss of life?”

Henry’s smile becomes warmer, a little wondering. “Are you always this fresh with people who give you conniptions?”

“Probably.” He casts about him. “Better splash some water on myself.”

“You heard that bit?”

“Yes.” He surges, a little unsteadily, towards the stairs to the lower ground floor.

“Would you like to take the lift?”

“I certainly would not!”

Having relieved himself, he washes his hands scrupulously, cups water in them to lave over his face. Cold patches still chase through his body, but he thinks he has the measure of them now, knows them to be shrinking. He planes one palm down his beard, squeezing, stares at himself in the mirror, flicks his fingers through his wet fringe. His hair really is getting pretty shaggy. The thing is: he quite likes how it looks. The knowledge that his father would hate it isn’t exactly an incentive to change. More importantly: he no longer looks like the man thumping a fist into the Question Time desk, railing at the unfortunate spawner of memes.

Presumably other, more recent, photographs of him have made their way into the public domain, but in them the strange shape of his mouth will be softened, the incongruous brightness of his eyes shaded. He peers again. His hair is starting to wave. Why was he never told that he had wavy hair? Maybe this explains his father’s insistence on an almost military-short haircut all his life. Or maybe this is just another thing about him his father didn’t know, and would never understand, that he has to find out for himself by deviating from the path laid out for him.

“How’re you doing now?” comes a casual voice from around the corner. Of all things, it turns out that Henry is capable of discretion. More elements to add to the picture.

He bites into the F of Fine, braking its progress. “Better,” he says instead, after a pause. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A slight shuffling sound, maybe of a man unpropping himself from a wall. “Fancy that water now?”

“Yes please.” He turns the corner, smiling. “My treat.”

Henry’s cautious smile broadens at this small witticism. “Brilliant. I take mine room temperature and slightly plasticky.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Outside, bottles in hand, they walk slowly through what is becoming one of the hottest UK summers on record “Again,” says Henry, who has retrieved his bag – a kind of large, brown leather satchel which broad strap he slings crosswise over his torso, letting the soft body curve over his hip and back. Like everything he’s wearing, it shouldn’t, but it somehow works for him. Even the heat doesn’t seem to bother him too much, while Oliver collects sweat steadily, even after heaving his jacket off to dangle by a finger over one shoulder and rolling up his shirtsleeves, and considers the disadvantages of longer hair and a beard in a heatwave.

“It’s great,” Henry is saying, “only I miss hills. You tell people here that you miss hills and they look at you as though you’re raving. It’s great for cycling, but this interminable flatness is doing _nothing_ for my calves.”

“There’s too much sky,” he agrees. Henry peers at him. “Not here, so much, but as soon as you get onto one of the commons, or drive a little further out.”

Henry doesn’t drive. “There’s never been a need for it – I’ve either lived in cities with decent public transport, or campuses with everything laid on, so no need to go anywhere much. Or, you know, I’d have a friend with a car.” Having been the friend with the car on more occasions than he can count, Oliver stays quiet on this point. “Leeds is hilly?”

“Sheffield, Leeds, Durham – all hilly. London less so, but still.”

Henry nods, doesn’t follow up with a set of questions. Either he’s letting Oliver come back to the conversation at his own pace, or he’s already Googled/ LinkedIn’d his details and understands what he means by those four cities. Probably both. Instead, he talks about Edinburgh, Madrid, Buenos Aires, São Paulo, Swansea; about his nomadic childhood, the boarding school in Scotland; about his sisters’ weddings in an impressively wide range of places, their children, even occasionally their husbands or partners.

“Hold on,” says Oliver as they complete their third slow circuit of the shady parts of the museum grounds, lingering by tacit consent, “how many languages do you speak?”

Henry’s eyebrows go up slightly, in surprise, he thinks. He blinks, starts counting on his fingers: “English; Spanish; French; German; Portugese, and _that_ was a fun learning curve, let me tell you; some Latin and Ancient Greek, though I wouldn’t class that as _speaking_, as such; and I can order a beer in Welsh, Polish, Modern Greek, and Russian. Oh, and say thank you in the same languages, and in,” he rolls his eyes upward in recall, “Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, British Sign Language,” he demonstrates, or Oliver assumes he does, “generic Arabic, and Swahili, though the last was for a bet.”

Oliver, who speaks English, passable French, and the bare minimum in German (sorry, numbers up to ten, excuse me, beer, water, do you speak English?, and – for some reason probably related to up to ten beers – beautiful parrot), along with two years of Latin in school (most of which has fallen out of his head), used to be considered exotically polyglottal in Leeds, which he suspects is more to do with the company he was keeping than anything else, and barely baseline lingual in Cambridge. He’s been wondering about getting lessons, but that would mean deciding on a language. 

He imagines Henry flirting fluently in Spanish, feels his breath hitch briefly, though for envy, heat, residual panic, or something else, he can’t say.

Henry teeters and joshes his shoulder with his own. “How about you?” he asks.

What has he missed? Has he missed anything? “Er, French?”

The hand to the chest again. “Oh my! Et parles-tu couramment?”

“Un peu, seulement. Er, assez pour une conversation de base, mais…” He shrugs, shakes his head a little.

“Louable! Et un bon accent. _Très_ utile à savoir. Alors, anyway, I was asking about how you were finding Cambridge.”

He blinks rapidly for the changeover. “Dry and flat, like you said.”

“I don’t mind the weather – I can do more heat than this – but you, I think, were made for cooler climes.”

“What gave it away?” he asks, drily.

His face scrunches sympathetically. “Let’s get you into the air conditioning again, shall we?”

Oh. “Do I smell bad?”

“Believe me: you _really_ don’t, but I don’t want you fainting on me. Drink some more water while you’re at it. I prefer people to be conscious when I’m impressing them with my linguistic skills.”

“You really do never stop, do you?”

“Sometimes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Translations
> 
> (I went with my own versions then checked with Google Translate to be more sure (you know, as sure as Google Translate can do…). Do let me know if I’ve screwed up as I want Henry to be properly fluent.)
> 
> _Et parles-tu couramment?_ = And do you speak fluently? [note that Henry has used the informal singular you, the cheeky fellow]
> 
> _Un peu, seulement. Er, assez pour une conversation de base, mais…_ = Just a little. Er, enough for a basic conversation, but…
> 
> _Louable! Et un bon accent._ Très _utile à savoir._ = Commendable! And a good accent. _Very_ useful to know.
> 
> _Alors_ = So


	5. Insight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Oliver ponders his own mental health and neurological makeup about 80% of the way down this chapter. He’s dodging the obvious words, and is simultaneously trying to be clinical about it. It is, as you might expect, a bit of a mess…

Inside it’s cooler, of course, but more noisy. Not that the museum is a noisy place, as such, but it’s sound that doesn’t go away, just keeps reverberating. He remembers an article he read once about the nature of the Big Bang, and how you can hear its echoes if you know how to listen, that they can tell you everything about the origins of the universe if you interrogate them in the right way.

It’s really a bit late to be considering retraining as an astrophysicist, or whatever kind of scientist would listen to the echoes of the universe to unscramble them, and he knows that “sound” in this context is probably more metaphor than anything else but, well, this has been a period of his life characterised by questioning several key choices made and bowed to along the way, and he would be lying to himself if the thought of sitting quietly in a laboratory somewhere, piecing together mysteries for the rest of his working life, didn’t appeal at some level.

Knowing his fate, though, he’d publish a paper on something that seemed totally logical to him and end up provoking at least half of all major religions into denouncing him from every pulpit.

Henry looks over at his sigh. He’s been examining the entrance hall with every sign of the intense study Oliver imagines him giving antique pistols and charity shop jackets with leather patches.

“Everything all right?”

“Hmm? Yes. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Not as dangerous as writing it down.”

He grins. “Apparently not.”

“So what are _you_ doing?”

“Thinking.”

Something about the tone makes Oliver instantly suspicious. Henry sounds distant and casual, and he’s not so far exhibited any of the former in the rough couple of hours of their acquaintance, which leads him to be unconvinced by the latter.

“What about?”

“You know, in a different life, you’d have made a great policeman.”

Oliver frowns, not least because _different life_ skates far too close to what he was already contemplating, despite the careers of astrophysicists and police officers not having a great deal in common, as he understands it. He’ll also admit to a pinch of discomfort in that, while academic pursuits strike him as ‘worthy’, he has inherited a distinct distaste for the police. And he knows it’s stupid; as stupid as any of his father’s many snobberies, but there it is, and he struggles to imagine a life like that with him in it.

This being a museum, of course, he finds himself thinking about the history of the service, and all the iterations it’s been through in this country alone. He knows his knowledge is wildly incomplete and made up mostly of fictional accounts, but he scrolls through riot police at strikes; Whitechapel capes and and the shriek of midnight whistles; bobbies and peelers; the regiments of private and crown guards; and it’s as he’s thinking about this, and how to untangle what gets these stupid, pompous, aristocratic patterns of thought all twitchy at the notion of those who serve the law, that he spots a familiar face. Or, well, head of hair anyway.

As soon as he sees it, he’s hearing music – [rapid, energetic, and yet bitter-sweet](https://open.spotify.com/track/7DoD6SH5E1jgaTow7nJ9KD), swinging between major and minor, a story of layers shimmering under deceptively simple intent, and he’s smelling smoke, knowing that everything is gone and yet everything is right here with him. There is still something to cling to, silken and strong, perfumed with ash, alive in this haunted night, his vision sealed to all but the ragged dance of flame.

He takes a step forward, mouth opening to call out, and the sense-memory or hallucination or coded interpretation from his misaligned neurones or _whatever_ this is breaks open like a– like a caul or shroud or something, and he’s watching a vigorous, dark-haired stranger walk across his field of vision, bearing an incongruous waft of cut grass with him. There’s a man striding alongside him, his every iota of body language doing all but dragging the younger man by the ear.

“Someone’s in trouble…”

“What?”

“Oh?” He’s said it out loud. Well, at least he rarely looks out of place doing this here – he’s never known a city for such studied eccentricity.

Talking of which, Henry’s asking: “Do you know him?”

“Hmm? I– No. _No_,” he says, more firmly, “just – it’s that kid.” Henry wouldn’t know. “Er, I saw him at the concert.”

“And he’s still here?”

“Apparently.”

“You seem very interested…” It’s only later he notices the extra note in Henry’s voice.

“No, it’s just… he looks familiar.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“Well, do you mean: ‘He looks _familiar_’, ‘He looks… familiar’, or ‘_He_ looks familiar!’?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Henry sighs. “You really don’t, do you?”

He sends an _And?_ with his face and a quirked eyebrow. That he _can_ do.

“Never mind – I’ll just have to find other ways to tease you.”

“This is your goal.”

“Obviously. Among other things.”

“You want to talk about your plan, don’t you?” He feels his neck muscles pinch a little, but nothing more alarming.

“I don’t have a plan – I was asking what yours was.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You were really going to keep coming back here, night after night, and just stare at the poor thing?”

“Poor thing?”

Henry clasps his hand to his chest again. “Lonely! Isolated! Longing,” the hand flings out in supplication, “for your touch!”

“That’ll do.” Oliver frowns at him, then catches and cringes away from a narrow look an older woman is giving them.

Henry apparently couldn’t give less of a damn and stares at her in a way that makes her flustered and turn away rapidly. He almost wishes that he could see what the expression looks like, but decides that he doesn’t want to witness Henry giving him that kind of look.

Something twigs. “Day after day, surely.”

Henry mutters something less than complimentary about their erstwhile critic. “Sorry?”

“Day after day.”

“Yes. Although I’m assuming you don’t come and drool over it _every_ day.”

“No, you said ‘night after night’.”

“Did I? Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“Exactly. So, fancy showing me your special blade again?”

Several emotions war for dominance, but humour wins out, which is probably the point.

“Get back on the horse?”

“Something like that. _Can_ you ride?”

“I’ve been known to.”

“Any good?”

“Better than you, I’ll be bound.”

Henry laughs delightedly at that, shoulders and throat working, face creasing, and Oliver wants to run his fingertips over the texture of those deep crinkles next to his eyes that talk of laughter and sun and a lifetime of staring at exactly what he wants and going for it full tilt. So instead he nods and gestures in the perfect pastiche of a nobleman bowing someone on: _after you, sir_.

Henry nods back, deeply, with a flourish, exactly as he would have predicted, and he’s equally unsurprised to see his fingers glide up to realign his moustache as he turns towards the Armoury. Oliver steps up alongside him and they make their way together. And if they match gaits perfectly from the first step, he thinks nothing of it until much, much later.

When they get to the exhibit, Henry goes immediately and apparently comfortably to his knees before it, peering closely at the blade with a rapt contemplation that has Oliver feeling more English than he’s ever felt in his life. Frowning hard he casts about the room, but, if anyone’s noticed, they’re disguising it in that particularly British Not Paying Attention fashion. His gaze goes high, and he spots the camera, stares at it for a while, sweeps his gaze down to Henry, who’s still venerating the altar of the sword, then looks upward and all around the cornices while the rest of the Armoury’s patrons rustle and peer and read and smile, and frown, and tap each other to point and peruse and consider and wander. He catches the eye of the volunteer who’s there to provide extra information, realises that they probably witnessed his “conniptions” earlier and scrunches his face in some kind of embarrassed apology. Their small frown clears and he thinks he gets half a nod. He then realises that, if Henry’s been in here before, going into raptures over pistols, they’re likely used to his excesses of temperament. Then he feels guilty, then resigned to that, and touches Henry on the shoulder to let him know that he’s going to make a circuit of the room.

He gets an absent kind of nod for his troubles, and heads off on his more usual pre-sword pattern. When he looks back towards Henry, he’s struck, surprisingly hard, at how familiar the picture is – the curve of his neck, the absorption, the reverence of his folded body, the warmth of his expression – there’s a kind of glow that’s private and not, and he knows, just _knows_, that he’s seen this man, in this pose, with this _luminance_ of trust, so many times that it’s a kind of comfort, which is impossible – it’s all impossible and entirely right.

He wonders if he’s losing his mind. He wonders if he’d know. If there’s a moment between sanity and not where you feel it leaving you, or if it all feels reasonable, because you never know any different. It might be different, he thinks, if this state of affairs actually distressed him.

So maybe not insane, just more… _himself_. He’s done the research, clicked through the surveys of varying complexity, knows the statistical likelihood of certain neurological conformations that match the overlap – difficulty with eye contact; obsessive interest in obscure topics; excellent (overwhelming) episodic memory and easily-interrupted attention; facial expressions that are either too blank or too full for other people to parse properly; excessively acute hearing and smell; a sensitivity to texture which makes clothing difficult but regular, unchanging patterns comforting. The silence and the hyperlexia. The intermittent volume control. The meltdown earlier – not new, and more frequent since the ramping up of public attention. And yet he can give lectures, follow and lead meetings, make new friends, interpret and transmit emotion through face and voice. He can drop the mask over his head and _perform_, even enjoy it.

It’s just – the world is very full and very tiring. It’s just – he’s trusting a stranger like someone who’s proved their trustworthiness a hundred times over, and that stranger seems to trust him back and knows the gentling of him.

He can’t use logic for this, only go on what people call instinct, and that instinct – the lightning-fast calculation of hundreds of factors, usually based on a combination of personal, cultural, and species experience? the voice of the unconscious? the voice of angels? – is telling him that he can trust this man. With _everything_.

He knows that people like him fall hard, become engulfed, suspending themselves in others. It’s not that. This isn’t… Not like– It’s not that. This is Henry, and Henry just… _fits_; there’s a space in Oliver that’s been waiting for him, and here he is.

And then he grimaces with distaste for the double-entendre, just as Henry looks up.

Bugger.

Of course, he thinks as he moves towards Henry, who is rising with somewhat less ease than he went down, hand against the case for stability, it could just be that they’re both recklessly unhappy people who’ve met at exactly the right time. Of course, it’s probable that Henry’s just a compassionate person who flirts like this with _everyone_, and Oliver is nothing special. Of course, he’s overthinking this.

“Fancy a hand?” he finds himself saying as he reaches him.

Henry casts him a wry look as he levers himself up. “Maybe later. Fancy another cup of tea?”

There’s something else going on in his expression, but Oliver is damned if he knows what it is. He makes a decision, based on everything that’s happened so far this last year.

“Yes. I think I may have part of a plan.”

“Good.” Henry stretches in that full-body way of his which ought to be illegal. “Because I have part of one too, and I’d love to see how they fit together.”

“Of course you would.”

“Care to indulge me?”

“I think that can be arranged.”


	6. In Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marking time.

“You know this is a terrible idea, right?”

“Yep.”

“Why am I doing this?”

A pause. “You have great faith in my ability to devise and execute a plan?”

Oliver tilts his head back on a slant. “Try again.”

“You’re bored and frustrated, and looking for something that will lift you out of that state, however briefly?”

“I think that’s what psychologists call ‘projection’.”

“All too likely.”

They sit in silence, Oliver resisting the urge to drum his fingers or check his phone, manages a mere half-minute before he cracks.

“How long do we have to stay here?”

“Until the guard’s done one round, then we move again.” Henry even manages to say this as though it’s the first time. Another pause. “Why, aren’t you enjoying yourself here?”

“It’s not the most ideal situation.” Not that, you know, he had a more plausible suggestion.

“It smells nicer in here than the gents.”

“That’s not exactly… Well, yes, that’s fair.”

“I wasn’t sure if Emilia was having me on when she told me that.”

“Hmm. Er, what?”

A low chuckle. “When she started transitioning she was astonished at how much nicer women’s toilets smelled. Pity the poor fellows who go the other way, eh?”

He blinks, parsing that. “What about, er, you know – those who are both, or neither, or… um.”

“Non-binary folk?”

“Yes.”

“I suspect it depends on the individual. I imagine that given a choice of only two they’d go with… hm, actually, I’ve no idea what the biggest motivating factor would be, come to think of it. Most people just want to pee in peace, I’m guessing, not have to _think_ about anything.”

He can sympathise. “Quite.”

A slow, silent while, punctuated only by the sound of breathing, anxious guts making their gurgling hiss, matching the cisterns’ slowing drip, or some source anyway, far behind walls, all water leading to the same place, after all. He thinks of the long, echoing dark, the water joining hands in secret places on its long journey home. There’s something tickling him about the cycle of water – onward, upward, and returning; the freight it carries; how it’s the same but not; that old saw about not being able to cross the same river twice. _But what if the same water molecules happened to come back all together at the same time and flow down the same channel?_ He nearly has the answer, and it’s something about being able to hold _yes_ and _no_ in your mind at the same time, when Henry stirs behind him, sighs, and it’s like a breath gusting over a pond reflection.

He rolls his shoulders, tries not to think about how numb his arse is starting to feel, squashed onto the closed lid while Henry perches on the cistern, but at least has a wall to lean back on. He could lean back on Henry.

Hmm.

“You alright?”

“Hmm.”

“Stiff neck?” A gentle hand touches his right shoulder.

“Why, are you going to offer to rub it better for me?”

A mildly wounded silence. “Only if, you know, it would help.” Henry’s voice is, of necessity, small, both their tones freighted with the need for discretion, but this sounds, well, _flat_. His hand starts to slide back.

Bugger.

“The thing is,” he begins, “that actually sounds nice, but I just w–”

The hand clamps. “Shh!”

He’s about to object, but. Oh.

The door swishes, footsteps slap on the tiles, and he swings his feet up to press against the door. This is literally all they’ve got, and he’s cursing himself for seventeen types of idiot, because surely _any_ plan would be better than this one.

A sniff. The owner of the footsteps scuffs around the corner, humming. _Ungz, ungz, dnz-dzz, mm-mm-mmh, ungz, ungz, dnz-dzz… Ungz, ungz, dnz-dzz, mm-mm-mmh, ungz, ungz, dnz-dzz…_ A breathy, explosive roll of tongue: _brrrrr!_ and fingers _da-ba-dap-ba-daa!_ against porcelain. The first cubicle door creaks, and the fingers _d-d-d-d_ roll rapidly before moving onto the next. He starts to look up and back at Henry, then stops himself. There’s nothing to be helped if this person isn’t satisfied with a stuck door and a post-it note with “BROKEN” and “engineer called” scrawled on it in the black marker Henry also found in his satchel.

_D-d-d-d_.

Now he – Oliver’s assuming from the sheer depth of the buzzing hums, which texture he surreptitiously lifts a palm to cup – is next to their cubicle. _D-d-d-d_, “Huh…”

Black boots halt outside, visible through the gap. Oliver leans to keep them in view past his own legs. Fingertips _prrrup! prrrup! prrrup!_ on the divider, and both of them do their best to breathe as silently as possible. Henry’s hand tightens on his shoulder and he reaches up and across with his left to grip it in turn.

“Hmm,” growls the guard, and Oliver sees what he doesn’t want to see: trouser cuffs jerking, then dipping on a slant, which means that the guard’s bending his knees, which means…

A low, buzzing hum. Another. The cuffs settle.

“Hnh!” a scuffle of hand in pocket. “Fuck’s all this, then?” through gritted teeth. “Ugh, fuck’s _sake!_”

The buzzing stops and his voice comes louder: “Mikey, the fuck you want? I’m workin’.”

Oliver catches a flat crackle of voice on the other end, the phone clearly on high volume. The boots about face and one starts tapping.

“Nah, mate. Nah.” A reassignment of weight. The boot stills.

A sharp intake of breath followed by an explosive “No!” The boots disappear. 

More tinny responses. Oliver risks swivelling an eye towards Henry, leaning forward over his shoulder – there’s a rising tone to the other end of the conversation.

“Listen, for the umpteenth _fucking_ time, Sticks: no. I don’t wanna know. Don’t, no, don’t even finish the fucking sentence, mate.” A thin clatter it takes a moment for him to identify as someone with keys on their belt leaning back on a porcelain sink.

“Yeah, no, _no_, listen: I. Don’t. Wanna. Know. Dunno how many fuckin’ times I gotta tell you: _I don’t do that shit no more_. What? No, I’m not in a fucking toilet, fuck off!” Another thin clatter, and the percussion of large boots heading out of the bathroom. “Nah, nah – I don’t wanna hear it, mate…” fades out, the door swings shut, and they’re alone again.

Henry draws breath sharply and Oliver presses his fingers hard against those on his shoulder in warning. The breath eases back out. He feels it ruffle the hair at his nape and closes his eyes for a moment.

Nothing else continues to happen. He releases Henry who says: “What the fuck what _that?!_”

“Fortunate timing?”

“I’ll fucking say.”

He unlocks his knees, lowers his feet to the floor. It’s time to move on.

*

“You’re sure?”

“It’s not like this is exactly my speciality, is it?”

“But you’re as sure as you can be?”

“Yes.”

The logic goes: Not all of the cameras are on at the same time. A red light shows when they’re actively transmitting. When the red light is off, it’s safe to move against the sequence, for the number of seconds that Oliver has counted off earlier. It’s a gamble, but presumably one that will be called out pretty quickly if he’s wrong about what the red light means. At which point, it’s up to Henry to do his best impression of a confused tourist for whom English is not his first language. Oliver is to scowl uncomfortably and non-verbally, he’s been told.

They’re using Henry’s tablet as the front-facing mode of Oliver’s mobile doesn’t zoom, and he wants to be sure to see the red light past the doorway.

“Right, go.”

They are also gambling on the exact direction of each camera, which is almost certainly terminally foolish.

Doorway by doorway, corner by corner, they make their way to the place Henry has earmarked as being camera-free, and make themselves as comfortable as possible in the badly-lit niche, to wait out full darkness.

After an hour of intermittent, murmuring conversation and Henry reading his Kindle, Oliver is mildly startled to realise that the other man has fallen asleep, propped in the corner with his device in his lap. He stares at his lax face for a while, frozen in indecision about the best thing to do. Should he check that he’s comfortable? Would that risk waking him? But would that be better? At least one of them should stay awake, alert to any movement and possible discovery (though presumably “well-dressed vagrant” becomes a secondary choice if “confused tourist” is put out of the window). He sits and he looks and he wonders, and in the end does nothing except stretch his own shoulders and lean fully against the wall, head back, and try to still his thoughts. He doubts he’ll sleep, and suspects that he shouldn’t, but if he can empty his mind out, still it somewhat, keep some adrenalin in reserve for later, that should help.

After all – it’s not like they’re going to be doing anything at a life-or-death level; the worst they risk is a telling-off, maybe some kind of fine. As he’s running through that scenario in his head, he sees Henry’s response to it, remembers “humble academic”, and reviews his sunlit outfit again in his mind’s eye, seeing details glossed by the attitude, cursing himself for being exactly the kind of privileged idiot who considers a fine a fee (and, for that matter, someone who casually uses the term “well-dressed vagrant”, even if only in his own head). If it comes to it, he decides, he’ll take it all on himself, rehearses playing aristocratic arrogance against anyone sensible’s assumptions that Henry is far more like the persuasive instigator than someone so easily cowed by an imperious manner and a vaguely famous name as to not-quite-break-into a museum. Persuading Henry himself will likely be more difficult. Well, he’ll face that argument if – when – they come to it.

For now he contents himself by looking for a longer moment than seemly at his comrade’s peaceful face before tilting his head back again and letting his eyes drift closed, just for the moment.


	7. In Camera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should probably be pointed out that I know absolutely nothing about the security arrangements at The Fitzwilliam, and I apologise unreservedly to anyone either upset or – somehow – shocked by that.
> 
> Note for Americans and maybe a few others: first floor of a building means, in this instance, the next storey up after the ground floor, which is at ground level. The basement is below that.

“ –thos! Wake up! _Please!_”

His eyes feel heavy, and the rest of him also feels heavy, and generally everything is a blur of _notnowleavemealonegoaway_, but the desperation in the voice is a hook, bright in the gray clag of his brain, so he hauls on it, heaves his eyes open, focuses heroically on the face so perilously close to his.

Oh.

He feels the mind-stutter he calls _categorisation fail_, knows, though, that this face is important, reaches to a deeper level than many others.

He reaches up, one palm nearly cupping his cheek. “A– Ar–” he clears his throat, swallows. “Are you okay?”

Henry – it’s Henry, though that name tastes wrong, but never mind. _We work with the tools we have_ he thinks, still muzzy. His eye is caught by a quick, furtive gleam. At this angle, his necklace has swung free of his shirt, and he’s both astonished and not to see, blurrily, a crucifix with a bright disk behind dangling from it.

He blinks, pulls back from Oliver. He’s Oliver. Name also wrong, always has been, but _Oliver_ is the right mask to wear, even if only from habit.

“Oh, thank God,” and the man touches his own chest, fingertips fussing with the chain of the necklace to tuck it back into his shirt. Oliver shakes his head in an effort to clear it, sees what’s wrong finally – the horribly foreign sight of Henry not smiling.

Bollocks.

“What’s wrong?” As he uses more language, he sharpens, and finds more words to use, doesn’t say _where are we?_ because that’s returning too, in the slightly bitter scent of the wood, the quality of the light, the sound.

Sounds.

“They’ve found us?”

“Not yet, but I can hear someone. Something.”

So can he. “Okay, let’s move.”

Easier said than done. He’s clearly not slept a full cycle, as everything is sluggishly muttering its deep reluctance to move. He stretches cautiously, then rubs the back of his head, pinches the skin above his nose.

Henry nods briskly. “Dehydration headache?”

“Er, yes?”

“I’ve got water,” he points to his bag. Of course he does.

“Later,” he tells him. “Where are they?”

“Not sure.” They’re both murmuring rather than whispering – the more sibilant sounds travel further, especially in a place like this. He wonders, briefly, how they both know this, shrugs it off, accepts Henry’s hand to rise, creaking, to his feet, for the second time in – he checks his watch – seven hours?

“We were asleep for an hour?”

“Longer, I think. Never mind. We need to get out of here.”

“Yes. Where are they?” And why has no-one spotted the pair of them before now?

“It’s tricky. Listen.”

He listens. Sound baffles off marble and parquet in a pattern that makes it difficult to pinpoint. Each time he looks towards one direction, the sounds seem to be coming from another.

“See?” says Henry.

“Yes.” There are either several people coming from different directions, or the acoustics are just that confusing.

“Upstairs,” he decides. Henry nods, thin-lipped and pale.

They check the cameras cursorily, dive out as those in view appear to be off, and head up the stairs towards the first floor.

Just as they reach the landing, someone steps forward out of the shadows, and Oliver feels his chest tighten, his guts grow cold and heavy.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh!” says Henry. “You’re big!”

He resists the urge to cover his own eyes at that, just lets his gaze flicker up and down this new, yet oddly familiar factor in front of them, spinning scenarios of flee, fight, or facing it down. Luckily they already have a plan. Right, Henry?

He looks over at him, sees wide eyes, thinks: _Shit, he’s chosen frozen_, and frowns, as agreed, mutely. He makes a questioning gesture of shrug and open palm to kick-start his friend’s brain, relaxing a notch when comprehension floods his face. Good.

“Ummm,” says Henry. And stops.

Great.

The guard is equally impressed. Clears his throat. “Yeah, gents? I’m gonna need you to come with me.”

“What’s wrong?” asks Henry, with what Oliver judges to be his at least second-largest puppydog gaze. Then those long fingers are wrapping his own, and he can’t help but send a startled look his way. “Are we in the wrong bit?” he continues blithely, in a definitely British accent. “I _told_ you we should have checked that email,” he stage-mutters through his teeth to Oliver, who glares back.

The guard crosses his arms. “The wrong bit?” he repeats heavily. Oliver is fairly sure he recognises his voice now.

“Yes, we’re a tad late, _obviously_, but we’re here for the reception. Wedding? Marcus and Andrew?” Another fussy little, singsong appeal to Oliver. “I _told_ you!”

The guard sniffs. “The reception. Marcus and Andrew? Surname?”

“Walton,” says Oliver, affecting his most aristocratic _I’d rather be anywhere else_ mien.

“Oh,” says the guard, eyes widening expressively. “The _Waltons!_ Why didn’t you _say_ so?! Right this way.” And he makes an expansive gesture to the stairs behind them.

“Really?” murmurs Henry, a tad too apprehensively for Oliver’s comfort.

“Really. Down you go.”

Oliver doesn’t trust his grin. It doesn’t speak to the rest of his face and has far too many teeth in it.

They are herded, still hand-in-hand, because Henry is apparently a limpet, all the way into the basement, where, to Oliver’s entire lack of surprise, they end up swiped into in a security office, complete with monitors, dog-eared magazines, decades-thick layers of bad coffee, and a chipped melamine table. It’s exactly the kind of contrast with the rest of the building that you’d expect.

“–arters,” Henry is saying.

“Hmm?” Oliver eases his hand free of Henry’s increasingly sticky palm.

“Presumably the servants’ quarters originally. Well, no, kitchens and pantries and such, but–”

“Actually, this wasn–”

“So, gents,” says the guard, cheerfully, turning from the door he’s just shut, “mind telling me what you was here for again?”

“Reception,” says Henry. The guard merely raises his eyebrows. “Wedding reception.”

“Names?”

“Er,” he gestures to himself, “Henry and–”

“The Waltons,” Oliver interjects. “Marcus and…”

“You _always_ forget his name, darling. I know he’s had a _lot_ of–”

“A wedding reception for two men,” interrupts the guard.

“Problem?” asks Henry, abruptly sharper.

“Actually, yeah.” His eyes narrow and his arms fold, and Oliver can’t help but see how that makes his shoulders bulge against his uniform.

Henry arches an eyebrow. “_Fascinating_. I wonder what your employers would think of your attitude…”

“I imagine they’d share my views.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, really.”

“Well, _do_ enlighten us.”

“I intend to. See, the Bible’s got a lot to say about that kind of thing.”

Oliver can _feel_ Henry braced to dig his fingers into this one.

The guard goes on: “‘Thou shalt not bear false witness’, am I right?”

“Eh?” Henry literally stumbles and Oliver looks away at that, embarrassed. The monitor nearby flickers.

“Not big on deception, the Bible, as I recall. Not really my bag, but you’re the one with the cross.” He sniffs. That hard grin returns to his voice. “Anyway, way I see it is this – you’re in ’ere for whatever nefarious purpose, and honestly? you ain’t dressed for it, so I reckon you’re more apt to be the thrill-seeking types, maybe snap a few selfies after dark while hugging a statue or whatever, but either way, you see me, know the jig’s up, think: ooh, big, black dude, bound to be a bit straight-laced, I’ll fling a mention of gay guys about and he’ll be too flustered to do much except escort us off the premises.” Oliver flicks his attention back to them. The grin’s faded. He sniffs again, peers down at Henry, who stares defiantly back. Oliver is drawn back to the screens. He thinks– no, definitely…

“Er,” he tries.

“You ask me? That’s pretty fucking homophobic, actually.”

“Wh–” splutters Henry. “Bu–”

“But how could _you_ be homophobic? Some of your _best friends_ are gay, maybe a bit bi yourself after a couple of sambuccas, yeah? You signed that _petition_ on _Facebook!_” The sing-song sarcasm vanishes from his voice. “By pulling tired old tropes like that out your arse, mate, _that_’s how.”

Oliver turns fully, tries stepping closer to them. “Um…”

Henry actually looks angry now. “That’s not–”

“Mate,” says the guard tiredly. “I don’t care, yeah? I’ll get paid just about enough to do one thing, and that’s to keep people out ain’t supposed to be here; and whatever other category you reckon yourself in, you’re _definitely_ in that one.”

“Then may I suggest you start here?” a cool, crisp voice that Oliver’s startled to realise is his own interjects.

“_What?_” spits the guard.

Oliver points and turns, backing to frame his view and the guard leans in, then stares and steps closer. Each monitor in turn is fizzling briefly before showing a different still picture of the darkened museum.

“And?” demands Henry, robbed of his argument. He crowds in with them. “Oh.”

“S’just a magnetic thing,” decides the guard, who smells angry, tired, and like he spends a great deal of time being active. Oliver inhales guiltily then steps a little further off. It doesn’t help. “What?”

“Nothing. Just getting out of your way.”

“Only it’s not a glitch, is it?” comes Henry’s voice. “Look.”

“I’m lookin’.”

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Henry’s voice is soft, but somewhat triumphant.

“Yeah. No. What’s that–? Look–”

“He’s right,” says Oliver.

“So what? I’m new. So what?”

“So that,” says Henry, pointing.

“Big painting, so _what?_”

“So _that_ big painting is currently being restored, while _another_ big painting is up in its place.”

“The _fuck_ it is!”

“There’s even a notice downstairs about it,” Oliver tells him gently. The monitor switches to a different view.

“Well, ain’t you both very _observant_.”

“We come here a lot,” he explains. There’s a faint note of apology to his voice. 

The guard turns to face them, folds his arms again. “You’re having me on, anyway – just tryna distract me.”

“Yes,” drawls Oliver, “we’re master criminals with a battery of – what did you call it? – _nefarious_ talents at our disposal, including being,” he glares at Henry, “_super convincing liars_.”

“Oh, sod off.”

He turns back to the guard. “Check your cameras.”

“What?”

“Check your cameras. If we’re right, they’ll be wrong. Better yet – radio your colleagues.”

The guard’s eyes flicker away and back. “Only one other on tonight.”

“Radio them, then.”

Glaring balefully, the guard unhooks his radio and thumbs it as he brings it to his mouth. “Chris, it’s Isaac, come in, yeah?”

Nothing. A hint of static. Isaac’s brow twitches. “Chris, come in, over?”

Dead silence. The screens continue to flicker.

“Shit.”

Henry is gazing at Isaac, great-eyed and uncharacteristically silent. Oliver leans slightly into his line of sight, then realises that he doesn’t know how to ask a complex question like this without speech. He settles for sending a scrunch of something like: _this is awkward, I’m still here though_ and hope it gets through.

Henry’s mouth creeps a little to one side and his eyebrows go up in the middle. He looks incredibly soft in that moment and Oliver is struck with all sorts of unsuitable and inconvenient feelings, which he doesn’t have the wherewithal to disentangle.

They look toward Isaac, who is switching an angry gaze between the floor and the screens, clutching his radio so hard that his knuckles have gone yellow.

“Is this your first shift?” asks Oliver, who’s just come to an equally inconvenient conclusion.

“Yeah. Weird, actually. I’d’ve thought they’d do more of a training thing, have me go round with someone else tonight, you know? They gave me a tour of course, during the day.” Ah, that’s why Isaac is familiar – he must have seen him earlier. Obviously. No other reason. “Showed me this lot,” he waves a broad hand around the room, “explained the radio, then left me to it, pretty much.”

“Who knew it was your first day? Night? Shift.”

“Er. Well, obviously Chris, and Lester. Our boss,” he explains. Then his face deadens, eyes hooding, and they take involuntary half-steps back at the icy anger pouring off him. “The little fucker. The fucking little fucker. I will wring his god-damned neck for this, the sly cunt.”

“Er…?”

“Never you mind,” he tells Henry, sharply. “Mate o’ mine. Well. Lying, two-faced little shitweasel.”

“So, not so much of a friend, then.”

“It’s complicated, yeah?” He glares at them. “You wait here.”

Oliver runs through the various responses he could give, settles on: “Of course,” folding his arms and leaning back on the desk which holds the monitors.

“Got no signal down here – gotta make a call.” Shaking his fisted mobile at them, Isaac glares between them and the monitors again and stomps out of the door, raising the phone as he does so.

“Quick, catch the–” mutters Oliver urgently to Henry, but the door swings shut with a very final-sounding clunk. “Damn.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay – I should have said sooner.”

“And I should have _thought_ sooner.”

“That’s okay,” he repeats, settles back onto his perch while Henry chooses the table, with preoccupied disregard for its disconsolate creak.

After a while, still staring at the wall, he says: “Go on – say it.”

“Hmm? Say what?”

“I’m a fucking idiot.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Only because you’re too polite.”

“Oh, believe me – I’m none of that. But you’re not a fucking idiot.” He peeks at him from behind his brows. “A terrible improviser and a poor judge of character, maybe…”

Henry pulls out of his dolour to check his expression, smiles a little with relief at the obvious tease. “What are we going to do?”

“Stay here until they get back and, if we’re lucky, get chucked out summarily while they fix whatever’s wrong with their system.”

A pause while Henry’s legs swing. “You don’t believe that.”

He sighs. “No, I don’t.” I think something very bad is happening, and I don’t know if we’re equal to whatever comes next. “However, we can’t go anywhere until they come back, so we should, er… chill out.”

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds in your voice?”

“Approximately.” He tries smiling at him, aware it’s probably none too convincing, but Henry seems pleased enough that he’s giving it a try. “Look, why don’t you get your Kindle out and read something to me, keep us occupied while we wait?”

“That’s a lovely idea.” Henry’s smile is back – muted, but still there, still real. “Hmm. How do you feel about Late Mediaeval poetry?”

“Ambivalent?”

“Capital – a fantastic opportunity to change your mind.”

“Sonnets are short, right?”

“Hah! I’m surprised you know when sonnets were first created.”

“And I’m surprised,” he bluffs, folding his arms, “you didn’t go for Early Modern.”

“Well, you were _going_ to get Chaucer,” Oliver groans lightly, “but just for that, _mon ami_, instead you get to enjoy the treat of de Ronsard… in the original French.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh, I think you’ll like him.”

Oliver cocks his head on a smirk. “Impress me, then.”

Henry answer the challenge with a sly grin of his own. “It will be my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In camera is [a Latin term](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_camera) meaning In a chamber / In secret, and a legal term meaning In private. It was too good a double meaning to miss, in this instance!


	8. In Loco

Two lines into the third poem, Oliver wanders around the room as Henry’s voice lays quivering syllables on the air. His “basic conversational” French is not really giving him more than the broadest impressions, but he’s enjoying the sound of it for its own sake, especially the verve that Henry’s putting into the occasionally overwrought, throaty rrr.

Soon enough Oliver’s found the photo board with all the staff on it – presumably to give everyone a chance to not fuck things up with unknown colleagues. He scans past what he thinks of as the academic staff swiftly, noting a couple of names, faces, and specialities that look interesting, moving onto the facilities staff – catering, grounds, secu… wait…

Stapled to the board and staring out at him in a tangle of brows, lopsided grin, bronze skin, and long, silky hair, is _that kid_ – Charlie Fielding, apparently. Quite why they have a groundsperson on their staff rather than contracting for it, he’s no idea. Maybe it’s one of those traditional positions, paid for by an intractable stipend or similar.

_They’ve got their money’s worth_, he finds himself thinking, stupidly, wrenching his eyes away as the faintest hint of smoke eddies through his brain. Come on – security.

“Gotcha.”

“Hmm?”

“Isaac Bellegarde.”

“Away wi’ ye.” He turns to see Henry scrambling off the table, Kindle in one hand. “You know what that means, right?”

“He’s got an interesting heritage?”

“Easy,” reproves Henry, walking up to the board and peering at where Oliver’s finger still touches the name, “your privilege is showing.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, Bellegarde – means ‘Beautiful Watchtower’.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Seriously! My hand to God!” He raises it. “It’s a toponym.”

“_You’re_ a toponym.”

“Actually, _you_ are. Montague,” he adds.

“Ah.” He thinks for a moment. “‘Name of place’?”

“And they say that Greek has no place in modern education…”

“Mine was positively Mediaeval.”

“Well, you did get given swords.”

They fall awkwardly silent at that reminder. Henry studies the board closely.

“Er,” he’s amazed to find it’s him breaking it, his flailing brain striking out at the first thing that comes into it: Henry’s face hovering close over his. “What was that thing you were saying before?”

A slanted smile. “Narrow it down?”

“When you were trying to wake me.”

“Christ, I don’t know. I think there was a small rant about how this would be a terrible anticlimax, something like that. Narratively bathetic – brought low for lack of stamina.”

“I stayed awake longer than you.”

“And I woke up first.”

“It’s a draw.”

“Maybe…” He grins sideways at Oliver. “What do I get if I win?”

“I’ll tell everyone what fantastic stamina you have.”

Henry turns to face him fully, sways slightly closer. “Is that a promise?” he murmurs.

Oliver licks his lips reflexively, watches Henry’s eyes flick to his mouth and back up. He feels the man’s heat and inhales the scent of him – something like spice he’s barely noticed he’s been picking up all day, all shades of terracotta and rich, dark earth – and really, _really_ wants to lean into this, be bathed in heat and scent and strong arms and _Henry_, and he’s not stupid – he knows where this is going, where it _could_ go, if he just– if he can say– or maybe reach out, put one hand to his cheek like he nearly did earlier.

The moment stretches. Henry stands, leaning into the wall, all louche angles and calm eyes, and Oliver abruptly realises that Henry will do nothing, that he’s placed his chips on the table and is waiting for Oliver to see him or fold.

“Uhh,” he manages.

“Ah,” says Henry, very gently, possibly even kindly.

_I’m no good at this_, he wants to say, and closes his eyes in a moment of utter despair at how truly fucking pathetic he is. At his age, he really should be, should be… A cascade of words pass over and through him, and most of them, of course, in his father’s voice.

For fuck’s sake. He has an excellent job he enjoys for an organisation half the people he graduated with would sell their teeth to have a chance at, has a veritable deluge of letters after his name if he could be bothered to ever use them, said truncated name gracing a frankly enviable quantity of publications, and all the money in his bank account is _his_. Most of his ridiculous cousins wouldn’t know one end of a paycheck from another _and yet_.

And yet he’s none of these inbred professional scions’ concept of respectable. And no matter how much of his heritage he’s excised, some things still linger. And some he can use, but most just weigh him down, and clank at the most inopportune fucking moments.

And Henry’s waiting. Right.

_Clunk_ goes the door just as he’s taken a breath to say… _something_, and Bellegarde barrels through.

“Right!” he barks. “Who the fuck are you? ID! Now!”

His hand goes into his jacket pocket and, catching the bigger man’s eye, he pulls it back out very slowly, lanyard first between his fingertips to make it clearer. To his surprise, Bellegarde nods acknowledgment of the gesture, holds his hand out, and Oliver swings it into his palm, resisting the urge to ask after Mikey. Henry is fishing in the wallet that his mobile case doubles as, tugging out a salmon pink, plastic card from which his face stares, alien and impassive.

“What?”

“I thought you said you didn’t drive.”

“Not a driving license,” he replies quietly, holding it out towards Bellegarde, who is still frowning at Oliver’s ID and back up at him.

“I could shave,” offers Oliver, straight-faced, “but that might take a while.”

Bellegarde grunts, hands it over, and takes Henry’s, which he passes back almost immediately.

“I think he was trying to work out why your name’s familiar,” stage whispers Henry.

“Shut up.”

“Imagine him doing this,” he suggests, waving his fist rhythmically in front of his own torso. Without the context of the invisible Question Time desk, Bellegarde’s expression becomes comically alarmed, as does Henry’s in response. Oliver buries half his screwed-tight face in his hand.

“Right, well,” says the guard. “I’ll just–” he points a thumb to the door, “go check with my, er… Stay here!”

“Like we have a choice!” calls Henry as the door swings behind him. He makes a dive for it, but misses before the _clunk_. “Bugger!”

“So now he thinks I’m a celebrated masturbator,” he says.

“Could be worse,” says Henry, distractedly. He is staring at the security panel, mouth screwed up to one side.

“What is it?”

“Well, I worked with someone once who told me that there was a trick to getting through these.”

“A security expert?”

“That’s,” he coughs gently, “one way of putting it.”

Realisation dawns. “A criminal.”

“Yes.” Henry tilts his head. “Now, is this the one that was affected by magnets, or the one where you could use the NFC on your phone to trick it?”

“NFC?”

“Yes, the thing you turn on to connect to other devices.”

“Bluetooth?”

“Pretty sure that’s different – you have to touch for it to count.”

Oliver grinds his teeth briefly, unclenches them to say: “Okay. Is this helping you?”

“What?”

“Is this helping you cope?”

“Why – you’d like me to go back to reading you poetry?”

Maybe. Or maybe come back over here and stand a little too close so I can watch you lean against a wall, all warm, patient eyes so I can do the right thing this time.

Whatever that is.

Because he knows that, if he gave Henry a polite, smiling declination, he’d smile just as politely back, and remain equally friendly, just less… just offering very slightly less. He wouldn’t lose him, as such – he’s even willing to bet he’d have a new friend at the end of this, no matter how it turns out, and a good one.

Not less, even. Just… different.

And all he has to do is make a decision. That’s all.

He doesn’t even think that a fear of commitment would be a problem for Henry. It’s just. He– He wants–

Grinding his teeth again, he growls at himself, threatens himself with tortures untold, but can’t bring himself to take the next step – over or away from the cliff’s edge.

“–estly, might as well just do it.”

“What’s that?”

Henry turns to face him finally, peering over his shoulder, looking… _polite_, dammit. “I said: I might as well just try that NFC thing.”

He blinks. “Okay.”

“Right. You okay?”

“Fine. Er. Need a hand?”

“No, though I might try your phone if this and the tablet don’t work.”

He nods briskly. “Fine.”

Henry fiddles with his phone, frowns at it, says: “I hope it works without any internet, because there really is no signal here,” and touches the back of the phone gently to the panel.

Three seconds later all the lights go out and the door _clunks_.

“Er,” comes Henry’s voice.

“Was it supposed to do that?”

“Well, I’d ask Vic, but he’s not really in a position to–”

“Is the door open?”

“Hold on…” A small, bright light springs out from Henry’s position. Oliver tries to remember if his own phone has a flashlight and, more pertinently, whether it has enough charge. A swish and a change of light levels. “Yes. Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

In the corridor itself, emergency lights are shining dimly. Henry looks at him and he shrugs, points the way they arrived at the office and they set off in that direction. They’re halfway back up the stairs when heavy boots appear in his field of vision.

_Fuck it_, he thinks. _Brazen it out._

“What’s going on?” he demands, just as Bellegarde says:

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?”

He exchanges a look with Henry. “This isn’t you?”

“No, it fucking well isn’t, and you clearly know that.”

“Let us up.”

“No.”

“Let us up, or the first thing we talk to the police about is the terrible conditions you kept us in, illegally, I might add.”

His words hit the mark and Bellegarde’s lips tighten. “Come on up, then,” he says, “but don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, exchanges a quarter-smile with Henry, and follows the man up.

Bellegarde stands between them and the revolving front doors, arms folded. “Go on then.”

“Go on then, what?”

“I can’t find Chris. What have you done with her?”

“Um. Nothing?” suggests Henry. Bellegarde snorts.

Oliver fixes the guard with his best _you’re wasting my time_ glare, usually reserved for students (and Question Time audience members) who are asking questions where the answer, he feels, should be self-evident.

“We’re the hapless tourists,” he reminds him, “_you_’re the professional.”

Bellegarde’s jaw clenches, he huffs out through his nose like a bull. Oliver stiffens his spine and ups the wattage on his glare, which comes right back at him with interest.

Henry puts calming palms out to both of them. “Where was she the last time you heard from her?”

Bellegarde looks to one side in an effort of recall, which breaks the lock between him and Oliver. Henry doesn’t look at Oliver, keeps all his attention on the other man, face open and neutral, dappled with shadows from the distant street lights. His own jaw clenches again, briefly, before he forces himself to relax.

“Antiquities,” comes the answer. “Was just heading into Egypt. Or out of Egypt. Near there, anyway.”

Henry looks at him now. They share a glance of “Ah.”

“That makes sense,” says Henry. “I’m guessing it was her we heard.”

“Right,” says Oliver. “But he can’t find her. You’ve looked there, yes?”

“Obviously.”

“Then she’s… you’ve searched all the galleries on the ground floor?”

“Yeah, and done a quick sweep of first, but nothing.”

“Maybe she’s in the toilet?” suggests Henry.

“Oh.” Bellegarde shuffles. “Yeah, obviously. Didn’t think of that. Her radio weren’t answering, though.”

“Would you answer if _you_ were in the toilet?”

“Point.”

They look around for a long moment, frowning at nothing.

“Try her again,” says Oliver, then cringes inwardly – that sounds more like an order than a suggestion. Never mind. He raises his chin at Bellegarde’s immediate narrowing of eyes.

“Fine. Yeah. All right. It’s been a good half-hour, though – she ain’t said nothing about the powercut.”

“Is that what this is?”

“You think _I_ know?!” He unclips the radio, thumbs it. “Chris, it’s Isaac. Where are you, over?”

Nothing.

“Chris. It’s Isaac. New guy. Stop pissing about – we’ve got a weird situation and I ain’t seen you. Over.”

Silence.

He shrugs at the others. “I dunno – she might be messing with me…”

“She might have fallen,” says Henry, softly. “Hit her head.”

“He always this fucking cheery?”

Oliver shrugs.

“Right, fuck it.” He clips his radio back on. “She’s messing with me, stuck in the bogs, her radio’s fucked, or she’s sick. Or all of the above. Either way, I’m going to find her and sort this out.” He takes five steps, turns, spreads his arms wide. “You coming, or what?”

“What?”

“I ain’t leaving you two jokers out of my sight, and I’ve got a colleague who’s in trouble or shortly about to be. You coming with me or do I have to drag you?”

Henry gives Oliver big eyes. “She might need our help.”

Bellegarde snorts. “You seen her? Woman _less_ in need of knights in tweed armour I never met.”

“Fuck it,” Oliver finds himself saying. “The sooner this is sorted, the sooner we can get out of here.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Bellegarde, curiously cheerful now he has a plan, however sketchy.

Footsteps echoing across the tiles, they follow him into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In loco is Latin for In the place or On the spot – essentially: on site.


	9. In Train

It takes approximately two-and-a-half minutes, by Oliver’s reckoning, for Henry to start chattering away to Bellegarde, who’s said little but “Left ’ere,” and “Keep up,” when Henry stopped to peer at something in a case of tiny grave goods. The man has clearly seen the latter as an invitation to talk. Specifically: to draw their guard out.

“What made you want to work here?”

“Central, good pay,” says Bellegarde absently, fingers restless against the case of his radio: da-da-da, dada-_da_-da. “Keep an eye out.” da-da-da, dada–

“But there must be plenty of–”

“Quiet, and less chance of some bloke nutting you for looking at him wrong.”

“Oh. Is it tough, being a bouncer?”

“It’s boring as fuck.” Dabadabadaba. 

“Right. Hmm.”

Some sections don’t have emergency lighting panels. He wonders why this is, and assumes they’re just a lower priority. Bellegarde grumbles and fishes out a slender torch with a surprisingly bright beam, ignoring the larger one on his belt.

“Nice,” says Henry. “Maglite?”

“Yeah.”

Undeterred, he continues. “So what’s your favourite bit?”

“What?”

“Your favourite bit?”

Oliver catches an underlit frown. “Of being a security guard?”

“Of the Museum.”

“Oh. Dunno yet.”

“What?”

“What?” _Brrap, brrap, brrap._

Oliver tries not to sigh.

“You mean _this_ is your first time here?”

“Yes.”

“_Tonight?!_”

“Well, had a tour earlier, like I said. You seen anything?” He addresses this to Oliver, as if he occupies a different category from Henry.

He shakes his head.

“Right. This way, I reckon.”

“No, but seriously – you’ve _never_ been here before?”

Bellegarde stops suddenly and they nearly plough into him. He points the beam at the floor so they’re all washed in a more general light. “What’s your point?”

“Er, just. I–”

“Why the fuck would I come ’ere, not paid to.”

“Because, um. Well. You’re new to… the… city…?”

Isaac’s eyes narrow. “Lived here longer’n you, I’m willing to bet.”

He sees Henry’s narrow in return, doesn’t bother to muffle the sigh this time. “Look…”

“Okay, fine,” says Henry, overloud. “How long have you lived here?”

“I’m starting with you, what – couple of years?”

“Er. Wow. Roughly, yes.”

“Right. You?”

Oliver says: “Just over a year, I think.”

“Fine. Know the place well?”

“Christ, no. I know the route between home and work, work and a few places to eat, the Corn Exchange, the station, and…” he thinks, “a couple of the other colleges out of town, The Møller Centre. But disconnected.”

“How’s that?”

“I know how to order a cab.” Driving in central Cambridge, he’d quickly learned, is only slightly easier than parking (legally) in it.

“Right.” He sniffs, turns his face to Henry. “You?”

“I cycle.”

“And?”

“I know my way around.” Henry sounds defensive. This is probably an error.

One of those hard grins. “You know Mill Road?”

“Yes,” in an _of course_ tone.

“All of it?”

“Er…”

“Let me guess – you’ve rarely been over the bridge.”

“Well…”

“Mitcham’s Corner?” His foot’s going steadily: _dap, dap, dap, dap_.

“Of course.”

“Right, so, let’s see – you live in Chesterton.”

“I– How–?”

“Logic. Also your clothes. You,” he nods towards Oliver, “likely one of them posh new apartments.” He flicks his gaze downwards, cocks his head. “Not too far from here.”

Face impassive, he nods.

“Right. That’s against,” he puts his thumb to his chest, “thirty years. Okay, what do you make of it?”

“Hmm?”

“Cambridge.” He addresses the pair of them. “Go on – what’s your impression? Good place to live?”

“Reasonably,” he says, slowly.

“Yes,” says Henry, still with that defensive tone.

The guard snorts. “You would.”

“There’s so much culture!” exclaims Henry, sounding somewhat personally wounded. “All the music, shops, libraries, theatres, poetry. The festivals, the Market Square. Strawberry Fair! The Winter Fair! The river! Gorgeous churches – gorgeous buildings, all the museums. Great places to eat! All so close to each other, and it’s great for cycling.”

“Fuck…” Bellegarde’s accent has broadened; the word sounds more like _Faack_. “You sound like a fucking tourist advert you do. Amazed you didn’t say _punting_.” His head shaking, he starts moving again.

“Oh, come on! It’s lovely!”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you–?” Oliver lays a hand on his arm. Even he can tell this is time to shut the fuck up. He shakes it off, hurries after Bellegarde. “Seriously, don’t you like it?”

“I live ’ere, ma’e – I don’avta be a fan…”

“But–”

The guard rounds on him. “Ever ’eard o’ Barnwell?”

“Um.”

“Didn’t think so. It’s categorised part of Abbey now, course.”

“Uhh…”

He makes a hard, humourless chuff of sound. “Course you ain’t. Barnwell’s where they siphon off the ’opeless, and keep ’em there for generations. Ain’t that far from Cambridge Proper, but you’d never know it. Why wouldja? Might as well be one o’ the villages. But why the fuck am I even botherin’?” He marches off again, calls over his shoulder: “I bet you say ‘The University’.”

“Well,” Henry patters after him, “Yes?”

“More’n one fucking university ’ere, for a start. And, while we’re at it, more people here than work in either. Did you know,” he goes on, diving around a corner and waving his torch beam with a dizzying precision over exhibits before plunging on, “there’s people born and bred and working here all their lives can’t afford to live here no more? People on canal boats coz they can’t afford neither rent nor mortgage _nor_ commute? People moving away to fucking Norwich or Ipswich or Bedford or whatever because they’re trying to clear out the canal boats so the river looks prettier for the folk in them posh flats down there? Because an empty view is better if you’re paying more’n a grand a month? Fuck’s sake.

“And even them that work for shops or bars or wotavya, guess who owns the land the building’s on? Yeah: University… or one of the colleges more like, and it’s surprising how many that is, all across the city. Try putting on a gig in April or May in one o’ them venues in the centre! They will _literally shut the bars_ rather than anything disturb revision for the exams. Did you know that?”

“No,” mumbles Henry. He looks sideways at Oliver, who scrunches his face in return. This doesn’t feel like his fight and yet it is. What was he railing about in his thousand-odd page crescendo about fundamentally flawed economic hierarchies if it wasn’t this? And he’d be lying if he tried to deny that he has benefitted all his life from the inequity, and still does.

“Been to any of the summer balls, have ya?” Bellegarde wrenches open a cupboard of some kind, which reveals no other guard lurking, shuts it with a grunt and locks it again, hand an absent series of slaps on it before looking around again.

“Yes?” ventures Henry.

“Once,” says Oliver, who’d felt unable to avoid it at the time, newly arrived as he was.

“Yeah, didja enjoy it?”

“It was alright.” Henry’s enthusiasm so curbed is a sorry thing to witness.

“Not really.”

“I see,” says Bellegarde, peering at Oliver. “Stay for the fireworks, didja?”

“Yes.”

“Like ’em, didja?”

How to explain fireworks to non-synaesthetes? He shrugs.

“Fair enough. You?”

“I love fireworks.” Of course he does.

“Right. See, thing is,” and his foot’s off again, _dapdapdap_, “you can have a gig cancelled at no notice during University exams, but them minted little fuckers can set off fireworks at 1am during fucking GCSEs and A Levels, can’t they? For, what, ten days in a row? A fortnight?”

Oliver winces, as does Henry. “Ah.”

“Yeah. Also: us townies don’t generally get to attend, ’less we’re working there. Get to listen to the mostly shitty disco bollocks for two-three miles in each direction and all, mind.”

“Ever been?” Oliver’s surprised to hear himself ask.

“Matter of fact, yeah.”

“Security?” asks Henry.

He sniffs. “Not so much. Performed at a couple.”

“Wh– really?!”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Pay’s a bit shit for local bands, but some of ’em feed ya. Mostly not, though. You’re in, do your thing, out again.”

“What do you play?”

“Cello.”

“_Really?_”

“No, you wanker – I’m a drummer.”

This explains a lot, suddenly.

“Ohhh…” murmurs Henry.

“What?”

“Your shoulders.”

He barks a laugh. “Yeah, partly. My pert arse and all. Come on.” He rounds the corner into a lighted area and Oliver, following, seemingly unable to stop himself, finds himself focusing on the muscles in question. Henry, next to him, has tilted his head to one side. He looks across to see a small smile dancing on him.

“Outrageous,” he murmurs.

Henry smirks outright, pauses in his stride. “What?”

“‘What’,” he echoes, deadpan.

“Ah, my friend,” murmurs Henry, leaning in close, gazing after Bellegarde, “I feel like I’m always d–”

“‘– doomed to want what you can’t have’?”

“Well,” says Henry stiffly, shifting away sharply. “Quite.”

Bollocks.

“No, look–”

“Best _crack on_,” says Henry, striding off after Bellegarde.

“See, _this_ is why I don’t talk to people,” he mutters, and skitters into a near-run to catch them up.

He slows as he reaches the corner where they’re standing; Bellegarde looking frustrated, Henry looking somewhere between conciliatory and hopeless.

“Fucking _nothing_,” says the bigger man, in response to Oliver’s questioning look. He heaves a massive sigh. “Upstairs it is, then.”

“You don’t want to look at the pottery?”

Bellegarde fixes him with a look. “No, I do not want to have a nosy around the pretty plates, thanks.”

“I meant _in_ the pottery galleries.”

Bellegarde sighs. “Yeah, all right, fine. Canteen’s this way and all, yeah?”

“Yes.” He spares a side-eye for Henry. Searching through the Armoury will be tense experience, and he’s glad to delay it.

He finds himself walking alongside Bellegarde, whose tone is heavy as they continue, his pace slower, his fingers working constantly on his thigh, high-hatting loose change. “This whole thing was strange enough to kick off with, and it’s only getting weirder. Just glad I brought my own torch.” Oliver can’t help but notice that his accent’s contracted again, smoother now.

“What do you mean?”

“Only way I can guarantee it’ll work.” He catches his eye, pats the larger device, sighs. “Look, this feels like an odd gig to give someone only done bouncing before now, right? Straight in the agency, straight back out again, almost. But no proper training, and my badge don’t even work everywhere.” He sighs again. “If I don’t find Chris, I’ll be stuffed anyway, let alone this power cut thing and you two fuckers.”

“What’s that?”

“Huh?”

“Your badge?” he prompts

“There’s some doors my badge won’t open. Technical issue or something.”

“All-in-all you’ve had better first nights,” he concludes.

Bellegarde cuts his eyes at him, a reluctant smirk flickering. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“I’m sorry,” says Henry, behind them.

“Eh?” They turn, slewing to a halt.

“This is all my fault,” he says, miserably.

“What, you buggered up the lights and disappeared Chris?”

“Well, no, but…” he waves his hand between him and Oliver. “This was my idea.”

“Figures.” Bellegarde snorts and shakes his head, that up-down smile breaking through more strongly. “Odd place to wanna cop off in, mind.”

Oliver chokes while Henry splutters. Bellegarde sniggers. “None of my business, I’m sure,” he says, grinning. “Except,” sobering, “actually it is, isn’t it? Ffffh… Ah, bollocks to it.” He gestures to the camera they’re standing under. “I been checkin’ – you’re right, they ain’t on, or something. Whatever they’re showin’, it ain’t this. No-one’s gonna know, if you wanna take off.”

“No,” says Oliver slowly, while Henry shakes his head. “We need to at least help you find your colleague.”

Bellegarde frowns, honestly curious. “You do?” He shakes his head again before they can answer, sighs. “Yeah, all right. Honestly? The company’s kinda nice. Say what you want about bouncing – at least there’s always other people. Bollocks to it,” he says again. “Let’s get round here then go up. If we do find she’s been taking the piss, we’ll tell her you’re museum officials on a spot-check or summat. Or either way. That good?” They nod. “Nice. Right, let’s go.”

They walk on, everyone moving a little easier. After a while, Henry says: “Mr. Bellegarde…”

“What’s that?” He stops and turns.

“I just– for earlier. I wanted to apolo–”

“Nah, mate, I meant: what’s with the name?”

“That _is_ your name, isn’t it?” he exchanges a worried glance with Oliver.

“Yeah, technically,” he mutters, darkly. Louder, he says: “Listen, that’s just weird, though. Yeah, no, _fuck_, no – _Mr. _Bellegarde? Fuck _that_ shit. That’s for people with clipboards, innit? Just fucking call me Isaac, okay? Or Zac, I guess. Don’t matter. Not Bellegarde, though. No.” He sniffs “Don’t owe that cunt _nothing_,” he mutters, and Oliver isn’t sure whether he’s meant to have heard it. Looking over at Henry, he’s halfway sure he’s the only one who did.

“Oliver,” he offers, with his hand.

Isaac grins and takes it. “Alright, Oliver.”

“Henry,” adds Henry, and their hands meet with a slap and shake, more heartily.

It should feel odd, and they’re all clearly waiting for it to do so, but the strangest thing is how _not_ strange it feels.

“Anyway,” says Henry, after a while of slightly shifty grins, “sorry.”

Isaac shrugs. “Can’t be helped.” He heaves a deep breath. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? I mean, you’ll be wanting your bed soon enough.” His eyes dart between them and Oliver thinks he picks up a glitter of mischief. When no-one responds how he’s clearly expecting, those eyes roll and he turns on his heel. “Pottery this way?”

“Yes.”

Henry nudges him on the way past, and he catches up, wondering what he’s thinking, when it hits him. Bed singular.

Oh.

Right.

It’s only when they’re through to the café that Isaac’s radio finally crackles and squeaks. It echoes in the larger space.

“_Kkh_– Zac?” The voice is distorted and there are a series of swiping whooshes, as of something dragging over the microphone, then a “_Thpft_.”

Isaac stops dead and frowns hard, unclipping the radio and raising it to his mouth. “Chris, that you, over?”

“_Kkh_– Zac. Tha_cchk–_od. Sorry. _So_ sorry. _Thpft_.”

“S’okay, Chris. State your position, over.”

Silence.

“Chris?”

Silence.

“_Kkh_– Isaac. _Thpft_.”

Louder: “_Yeah_, mate. _Over_.”

“_Kkh_– _Mmate!_” It’s hard to tell over the distortion, but it sounds somewhat bitter. Ironic? More dragging crackles. She hasn’t broken the connection yet. “Sorry. Th_cchhhh_t me. Got me. _Thpft_.”

Isaac’s frown crumples deeper. “Who got ya? Over?” Nothing. “Chris, I _swear_ to God – if you’re fucking with me, I’ll–” He takes a slow, deep breath, eyes closed. Licks his lips. “Look, where are you, over?”

“_Kkh_– _Thpft_.”

“Bollocks!” He thumbs the radio again. “Chris! Chris, answer, over!”

“_Kkh_– L_cch_t. _Thpft_.”

“Chris? Say again? Over?”

“_Kkh_–” a loud, repetitive sound that has Isaac pulling the radio away. It takes a while to distinguish as a deep and horrible coughing. He glances at Henry, whose whole body is a wince.

They all look at each other, wait for either words or the _thpft_ of her releasing the connection.

“Locked. Sorry. _Sorry_.” The last is a whisper. There’s nothing but trembling breaths, then a very final “_Thpft_.”

Isaac tries a few more times to no avail. “Shit,” he breathes into the trembling silence. “_Shit!_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cambridge, but I also have a lot of Strong Feelings about it.


	10. Incalculable

They stare at each other in the dimness of the café, the books and artistic gewgaws of the shop looming, surreally trite, in the background.

“Right,” says Oliver, when no-one else moves, except for Isaac staring between his radio and the floor again, “what do we know?”

“She’s in the building,” says Henry after a moment. “It _is_ her, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” says Isaac, “far as I can tell.” He looks up. “May not be in the building, to be fair.”

“What’s the range on those?” Oliver points.

“Oh. About 500, I reckon, place like this. Metres,” he adds, in answer to their confused glances.

“Christ, really?”

Isaac shrugs. “Depends on the model and the battery levels, what the walls are like in here, any other interference. When you’re on doors, you’ll often hear the other venues’ comms on yours. Some clubs work out a common channel for that. Useful, actually, if there’s some tosser been chucked out we wanna watch out for.” He chuckles, then sobers, gaze sharpening.

“You still think she might be having you on?” asks Henry, gently.

“I don’t know. Got to act as if it’s on the level. That’s a hell of a good performance if she’s not, you know.”

“Injured?”

“She sounds _fucked_, mate.”

Henry just blinks, looking worried.

“So, let’s assume she’s here,” decides Oliver. “She doesn’t know about us, so if it’s some kind of,” he wants to say trap, though that sounds dramatic.

“Wind-up?” suggests Henry.

“Yes. If that’s the case you’ve got more… witnesses…” he also means something else, but he can’t bring himself to say it, doesn’t know if it’s true. “So we proceed as though she’s inside the building.”

“Locked,” says Henry. “She said locked.”

“Yes. That was very clear.” Along with repeated apologies, which makes little sense if this is not as it seems. He stares intently at Henry. “Locked rooms?”

“The reading rooms,” he answers promptly, eyes narrowing in thought. “Founders Library, Reference Library. That kind of thing. Plus all sorts of admin wing I don’t know about.” They gaze at Isaac.

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t get so much as a map.” They frown. He frowns back. “Which, the more I think about it, the weirder it gets.”

A sigh and a flick of eyebrows from Henry. “Right.” He dives to the checkout, comes back brandishing a glossy, paper fold-out guide. “Map.”

“Map,” says Oliver. The three of them cluster under the nearest emergency light.

“All these blank parts are admin, then?”

“Must be. Isaac, did they show you these?”

“Whistle-stop tour, mate. I wasn’t expected to go through ’em on rounds.”

They’ll be normal offices and storage rooms, surely. Computers, artefacts, things being investigated or restored. Why not cover those? “Do the cameras show them… normally?”

“A couple, yeah, as part of the sequence.” He frowns. “Again: didn’t get that explained to me properly. I kind of assumed Chris would take me through it. Then she took off, told me to do a circuit to get used to things. The more I say this aloud, the weirder it gets.” He glares at them both. “When was the last time _you_ had a temp contract kinda job, anyway?”

“Good point,” says Henry. “The last time I worked in a bar, I… Yes, never mind. So: ‘locked’ means behind the scenes or one of the reading rooms?”

The others shrug, almost in unison. “Seems likely.”

“And the toilet’s still an option, obviously,” he adds.

A silence drops over them.

“Dunno if I feel comfortable doing that,” mumbles Isaac after a short while.

“No,” Oliver murmurs.

“Oh, come on!” says Henry. “After all, you w–” Oliver glares, he grins back slightly manically, “won’t be alone, ah, will be doing it for a good cause, after all.”

Isaac frowns at him, but what can Oliver can read in the low light seems only as suspicious as he would have predicted.

“I’ll go in myself, if you prefer,” offers Henry, breezily.

“Nah,” grumbles Porthos, “should be me, innit – how’d it look if a random comes through the door and she’s puking her guts up or whatever?”

Oliver thinks that the sound quality would be different in a bathroom, and that her predicament sounds more serious than gastrointestinal distress, but nods anyway. “Let’s just… get it over and done with, yes?”

He nods. “Right you are.”

Isaac rattles down the stairs, the pair of them hot on his heels, wheels and, taking a deep breath, dives into the toilets, calling her name surprisingly gently. When those and the disabled toilet prove empty, he then crosses to the other ones. Henry and Oliver look at each other, decide tacitly to stay out themselves.

Isaac emerges silent, lips tight, shoulders mantled, checks the baby changing room for good measure, then, without looking at either of them, says: “Upstairs.”

He keeps going when they reach the entrance hall, heading up to the first floor, then stops at the top and turns, arms folded. They troop up after him, Oliver willing to bet that Henry’s as skin-tighteningly aware of the echo of their earlier capture as he is.

Henry is, of course, the first to break the silence. “Everything alright?”

“You know, I wondered how we hadn’t seen you. Obviously didn’t know about the cameras being out, but even so. That was you, wasn’t it? And don’t try ‘What was?’” he adds to Henry, who tightens his mouth in a rueful line. “In the posh bogs earlier.”

Oliver nods.

“See, that was pretty clever. Woulda been more clever to leave the note on the door, maybe lock it after ya.”

“To what end?” he asks.

“I dunno – to keep me guessing? Anyway, proves one thing.”

“What’s that?” asks Henry.

“All this,” he waves his hand around the perilous dimness of the powered-down Museum, “ain’t you. If you knew how to turn off the cameras and the lights, you wouldn’t’ve hid in the loo. The ladies’ loo.” He shakes his head. “Mind, it does smells better.”

“_I_ said tha– hmm…” Henry bites off his exclamation. His voice echoes oddly, lost in the columns and vaulting. It brings Oliver the oddest realisation – much as he’s been longing to see the Museum quietly, just him and the exhibits, no-one to dodge, no grating voices and competing scents to filter, no constraints of time, the place feels wrong. It was made for people, not just for things. The things are meaningless without the people. It’s not a comfortable realisation, and he’s unsure what to do with it.

“Now what?” he asks quietly.

Isaac sniffs, turns his mouth down, shifts his hands to his hips. “We tick off the locked rooms one by one.”

He nods. “Agreed. Map?”

The map handily shows which rooms are open to the public and which not. They head down to the one on the ground floor first – a long, modern, glass-and-metal affair filled neatly with shelves, books, desks. It’s here that they discover that Isaac’s card isn’t necessary – like the office downstairs, the card sensor’s dead, and all that’s needed is an ordinary key from his chain. It takes two thorough minutes to show no Chris, not even in a cupboard.

“Next?”

They swiftly work their way through the stacks and storage beyond, then onwards and around, and back and forth until Isaac is jiggling the rather beautiful handles of heavy wooden doors in mounting frustration.

“No luck?” asks Henry, face full of sympathy.

Isaac grimaces, braces, twists, and leans, then backs swiftly off at the alarming crack-creak of unhappy wood.

“Bollocks!” He glares at the doors, hands on his hips. “Yeah, no, the key worked, but it ain’t opening.”

Oliver follows the wall around until he finds a similar, but smaller door. “How about here?” he calls.

The only key that fits doesn’t move. Isaac frowns mightily. “Something wrong with it…” He looks at them. “Either of you want a go?”

Henry holds out a hand and has the key, still on its chain, handed to him, which necessitates a lot of close leaning, as Isaac clearly still doesn’t trust them enough yet to actually unhook the chain from his belt.

Oliver is impressed, actually, that Henry doesn’t take this opportunity to nudge Isaac’s hips with his own, or make even the most lightly suggestive of comments. He just bends soberly to the task, so that it’s Oliver who has to reprimand himself for staring at the pair of them, wrenching his gaze away to pace the corridor between the two doors. A snarl of frustration brings his feet back.

“See?”

“I think the lock is technically what you’d call ‘fucked’,” mutters Henry, frowning worriedly at the lock and then the key in his hand.

“What?” asks Oliver.

“Well, see, the key’s not chewed, and it’s also clearly frequently used. The lock itself…” he points, “those scratches are fresh.”

“Well,” says Isaac, “looks like we’ve found her.”

None of them say aloud what the next logical assumption is, but it’s there in their variously preoccupied expressions.

“Right,” says Isaac. “Better check, then.” He moves Henry gently to one side, crouches, leaps, and catches the ledge above the door. Under their astonished gaze he pulls himself up and peers through the tiny glass panel above it. He then hoicks his left forearm onto the ledge, and reaches into his right pocket for his torch, shines it into the room beyond by holding it in his teeth, then thumps back down.

“Yeah, maybe,” he mutters. “Come on.”

“What?” asks Henry.

He leads them into the corridor and points. There’s another window; larger, and – more importantly – with a hinge. An actual casement.

“Okay…” says Henry. “Same again?”

“Yeah.”

It’s no less impressive the second time, only he goes up with the torch already in his mouth. “For all the world like a pirate with a dagger between his teeth,” murmurs Henry to Oliver, very quietly.

“You know that’s a myth, right?”

“Hush, you’re spoiling it.”

“Sorry!”

The look Henry casts him is sparkling with repressed mirth, so he supposes he’s forgiven for his earlier gaff.

“Yeh,” says Isaac, “fwhe’s in ’ere.” He thumps back down, turns, dusting his hands and removing the torch. Sniffs. “Or someone looks a lot like her, anyway. Lying down,” he adds, face grim.

“Not moving, I take it?” asks Henry.

“Nope.”

“Right.”

“Okay, so, way I see it is: best option – get through that window, open the door from the inside, get her out that way. Either of you got First Aid?”

Oliver points at Henry.

“Right. I can’t fit through there nohow, so I reckon you get up there, get through, get her sorted, then we get her out. Right?”

“Errr…”

“Don’t worry,” he tells him, earnestly, “I’ll boost ya, no problem.”

“It’s not… that, precisely…”

“Right…”

“Um.”

“Henry?”

“It’s a bit high.”

Isaac frowns, looks around, looks back. “It’s eight feet. If that.”

Henry sighs. “I’m really sorry. I just can’t.”

“Why not?”

His gaze goes everywhere but at them. “Um. It’s– Oh. Hm.” He addresses the wall. “A phobia. Sorry.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow.

“You’re afraid of heights?”

Oliver remembers a tall tale about Henry scaling somewhere in Ecuador, with no mention of any fear or phobia. He merely looks at Henry, who looks somewhat abashed and slides his eyes to Isaac, saying: “Kind of? Sort of more specific. It’s– Look, it’s really weird, but–” He sighs. “_Fine_. I had these traumatic dreams when I was a teenager about falling out through a window. Specifically, _through the glass_,” his hands move expressively, “of a window, high up.” His eyes go very distant. “Sometimes I was pushed. Sometimes I landed and everything was fine. Sometimes I landed and everything… wasn’t.”

Oliver looks over at a small sound from Isaac, whose lips are pressed tightly together. It’s hard to tell in this light, but he looks paler.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, slowly. “Okay, we won’t make ya.”

He turns his gaze to Oliver, who shrugs, feeling very weary, says: “All right. What do I need to do?”

It turns out that he needs to: get up to the deeply recessed ledge in front of the window, fiddle the catch open, get through, find a way to get Henry into the room to help Chris, then stay out of Henry’s way. This last is his own, private addition.

“Right?”

“Right,” he says, feeling his face do something tight, somewhat unsure what it is or, more accurately, how it will be seen. He can’t afford to worry about that old concern now. “Any instructions on ‘fiddling the catch open’?”

Henry opens his mouth, then gestures politely to Isaac.

“What?”

“Well, you go first.”

“Why?”

“Because… it was your idea?” he says, slowly.

Isaac’s eyes tighten. “Anyway, yeah, should be easy enough – these old catches ain’t for security, it’s just to stop ’em bangin’.”

“Why have them at all?”

“Airflow, I guess.” He pats down his trousers. “Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’?”

“Nothing here.”

Henry fishes in his bag and brings out a very chunky Swiss Army knife.

Isaac raises an eyebrow. “You got a sonic screwdriver in there and all?”

“Haha. Will this do?”

Between them, heads close together they fish out different attachments and decide that the bottle opener will be close enough to a spanner.

“Or you could go back down to the office and fetch a toolkit?” suggests Oliver, somewhat drily. He’s not looking forward to this.

Isaac takes a deep breath. “Good point. One thing, though.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know where the toolkit is or even if they have one there, it might take me longer than you’d take with that and she’ll get worse, and I might get clobbered by whoever clobbered her – or you might if I leave you alone.”

There. It’s out in the open.

“That’s three things,” he finds himself muttering, as Henry says:

“You really think…?”

“She didn’t clobber herself.”

“How do you know she’s not just passed out?”

“And locked herself into a room where the lock’s been fucked from the outside? ’Sides, there’s the blood.”

“You didn’t mention the blood.”

“Ah. Well, certainly looks like it.”

“Right,” says Oliver, feeling tension ratchet up throughout his body. “Tell you what – if the bottle opener doesn’t work we’ll all go together to the office, search for a toolkit, and go from there, right?”

“Yeah, okay. Henry?”

“Let’s just– Wait, why haven’t we rung for an ambulance?”

“Landline’s out – I checked the reception desk,” says Isaac. “Also: my phone’s got no signal anymore. Yours?”

They check. They haven’t.

“That’s weird,” says Henry. “It was fine earlier.”

“Yes, nothing put a crimp in your Googling skills,” says Oliver. His voice is coming out flat and dry with tension, but he doesn’t have the spare energy to modulate it properly or explain himself. He sighs. “Look, let’s just do what we can for now. If it comes to it, one of us can go down the road and call from there.”

“You think the problem’s in the building?”

_I think something incredibly dodgy is going on, and none of these things are coincidental; I’m scared, and I’m just going to push through until I have to stop._ He nods.

“Right,” says Isaac. “Give him your knife, then.”

Henry puts it in his hands, fixes him with what he thinks is a _be careful_ look, but whether it’s of the device or himself, he can’t tell. He settles for a very serious nod in return. He turns to Isaac. “I can’t…” he nods upwards to the ledge. “Not like you.”

“No worries,” says Isaac, clearly trying for breezy. “I’ll boost you and all.”

“Right.” He turns to face the wall.

“Okay, arms up.” He puts the knife in his pocket and raises his hands high. “Right, bend your knees.” He does, and large, very warm hands grip his thighs. “Right, _push!_”

He thinks that’s a shoulder nudging just under his arse but has no time to consider it properly as the wall slides away and the ledge “Catch it!” comes into his eyeline. He hauls and scrabbles, hands pushing at him anywhere they can reach, steadying his feet, until he’s kneeling, miraculously, next to an ancient window, bracing himself on the alcove and doing his best not to think.

He peers down. “Torch?” He’s astonished at how steady his voice is, knows his face is completely blank. The torch is duly passed up and he elects to lay it on the shelf rather than hold it in his mouth, the imagined taste and texture of the ridged metal immediately appalling.

_Right then._ He sets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m clearly starting to get more inventive about the layout and structure of the Museum. I hope they’ll forgive me. I’m sure they will…


	11. In Incerta Concordia

“Well?” calls Henry after a while.

He frowns; the bottle opener isn’t ideal – they knew that already, but it’s _very nearly_ right. He heaves again and it slips.

“Bugger.” Come on. _Slowly_. He’s sure this time that there’s a _giving_. He lifts his left hand so that he can press down on the blunt side of the blade while pushing up on the layered handle with his right, wobbles, feels a bright stab of panic that shorts out his vision for a moment, presses his back more firmly into the top of the niche (his right leg protests; he ignores it), and push-press-pulls, feeling his core tighten on the effort.

“_Nnfh!_”

“Anything?”

“It’s,” he squeezes out between his teeth. “Very. _Unh!_ Stiff!”

A small sound. He sighs, pauses.

“Whoever that was snorting, consider yourself glared at.”

“Yes, Oliver.”

There’s only really room for one of his legs if he’s to have any space to _unh!_ _lever!_ in. He can choose to either have the _unh!_ have the edge of the ledge digging into his left knee, stretch that leg out in front of him and _unh!_ push his foot against the upright edge, or just let it dangle, _bloody hell!_ which runs the risk of unbalancing him. None of these have proved ideal, so he’s alternating between the dangle and the stretch-press.

He heaves as deep a breath as he can manage and attacks the thing again. The others have clearly decided to try not to disturb him, and are murmuring between themselves.

“Feeling guilty?” That’s Isaac’s gruffer tones.

“Not… really. Okay, maybe a bit.”

“You really couldn’t have done it?”

“Well, I could probably have squeezed in that space and done that, but, you know, only if it wasn’t a window. Or high up.”

“Right?”

“Fine, you’ve got me: it was totally a ruse.” The sarcasm glitters on Henry’s tone. “Honestly? I’m probably just using this opportunity to assess his flexibility.”

Oliver feels his mouth quirk as he considers changing angles.

“Yeah, that and stare at his arse.”

Oliver closes his eyes for a long moment, which is probably a terrible idea when you’re balanced on a ledge eight feet off the ground. He suspects that the drummer thinks he’s inaudible up here. He also suspects that Henry has no such illusions, the bastard.

“Whatever _can_ you mean…?” purrs Henry, who surely remembers him confessing earlier how overwhelmed he gets by sound, how sensitive his hearing can be, how the only way he can cope, sometimes, in an open office environment, is to wear closed headphones.

He flexes his fingers, re-tightens his grip, and heaves again. This time, there’s an audible _crack!_ which he feels all through his arm.

“Hooray!” crows Henry.

“Shush!” he admonishes.

“Sorry!” he stage whispers back. “Wait, that was the catch, not you, right?”

“_Yes!_” He frowns, thinking of how this will go next. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything slippery in that bag of yours we could use to–”

“Oliver, are you asking if I’m carrying _lube_ on me?”

He grimaces. “At this point, I’ll take anything if it works.”

The others snigger outright at this.

“I hate you.”

“Sorry!”

“Well?”

He risks peering down. They’re both wiping hands over their faces. Henry catches his eye, sobers. “Sorry. In all seriousness: no.”

“Right. I’ll just carry on, then.” He turns back to the catch, starts to turn it – twist, unhook, shift; twist, unhook, shift – degree by painful degree.

“I bet they’ve got WD40 downstairs,” puts in Isaac.

“Is this – _unh_ – in the toolkit – _unh_ – we’re not going to – _unh_ – to fetch due to – _unh, bastard!_ – putative assailants?”

“Er, yeah?”

Through gritted teeth: “Then I’ll carry on – _unh_ – as I am, thank you.”

“Right-oh.”

“What’s that?” asks Isaac.

“‘Putative’,” says Henry. “Like supposed or assumed. He’s saying that–”

“I know what he’s saying, thanks – I just literally didn’t hear the last bit.”

“Oh, sorry – he said he’d carry on, er, as he is, I think.”

There’s a silence, where all he can hear is his own breathing and the clack-creak of each turn of the screw. He’s beginning to think that it’s never going to reach a point where he can just turn it by hand, and he’ll be notch-by-notch-ing it until the bastard thing is fully open. The window itself is staying closed, however, while the screw is coming towards him, making it more difficult to manoeuvre in the already limited space. Maybe if he leans on the window itself, that will change its mind?

Henry murmurs something.

“What was that?”

“I said: I’m sorry – I assumed you were asking about the word.”

“I know.”

More silence. Oliver wills Henry to change the topic.

If he starts lower, now it’s loose, he can use the longer arc to turn the thing, anyway. That’ll be slightly less tedious, at least.

“I mean, it’s an unusual word.” Dammit, Henry.

“Which: putative or assailant?”

“Um…”

“They’re both not particularly common, sure, but I’ve heard ‘assailant’ more times in my life than you have, I’m willing to bet.”

“If you say so.” Henry’s tone is cautious.

“Also: why assume I either don’t know what putative means or that I can’t work it out from context? And why assume I wouldn’t just ask if I wanted to know, eh?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“And I _literally_ just asked you a question.”

“Oh, so it wasn’t rhetorical?”

“No.”

Oliver, into more of a rhythm now, risks a look sideways. Isaac has his arms crossed and is glaring at Henry, who is side-on to him, ostensibly monitoring Oliver, but actually missing him by a good foot. He has one hand in his jacket pocket and the other fiddling with his beard, curling it over a finger repeatedly.

Isaac strokes his own short beard. “You know, I think I know the answer.”

“Mm-hm?”

“It’s the accent, innit? Basically: you’re a right snob.”

Henry twists into that. “I am _not!_”

“S’not your fault, I guess – you posh blokes are all th–”

“I’m _not_ posh. I am _not!_”

“_Calm_ down!”

“_Fuck_ off!”

“Shut _up_, the pair of you!” He barks it without thinking, glaring down at them.

“_Yes_, sir!” Isaac’s eyes shine up at him through the gloom. He can’t read the expression, but he can feel it softening his own.

Henry’s eyes narrow with his tone. “Keen enough to kowtow to the upper classes when it’s _him_, though, aren’t you?”

Isaac’s gaze returns to Henry. “Fuck off, that was sarcasm.”

“Surprised you know the meaning of the word…”

“See? Snob.”

“Fine,” he says through his teeth, breathing heavily. “But I am _not_ posh.”

“Maybe not. _He_’s,” he points with a nod and Henry follows the line of it automatically, “the real thing, _you_’re just pretentious.”

Henry squeaks, puffing himself up. Oliver glares at him and he subsides. “When this is over,” he hisses, turning back to Isaac, “You and I are going to have a proper debate about this.”

“Whatever.”

“Masterful comeback.”

Oliver rounds on them, pointing the bottle opener down from on high. “_Right!_ Shut the _fuck_ up, the _pair_ of you, unless you’re prepared to either _fucking apologise_ to each other, or fuck the _fuck_ off back to the fucking office!”

Silence.

“That’s a lot of fucking to fit in, Oliver,” murmurs Henry, and Isaac snorts, seemingly before he can help himself.

“Laugh it up, but I’m up on a ledge which I’m _helpfully_ reminded,” he glares at Isaac, whose face is still creasing, “is _eight feet_ off the ground.” He jams the tool back into place with his left and leans hard on the casement with his right. “Trying to _nnbodge open_ this _bastard_ thing. And I’d _appreciate_,” he grits through his teeth, “being able to _fucking!_” he wrenches hard with both hands and it finally gives, sliding out with a judder, “thank fuck, yes. It’s open now,” he clarifies, more quietly.

“Nice one,” offers Isaac, trying for sober and conciliatory, but his eyes are far too merrily twinkling.

He sighs. “I’ll do the next bit, then, shall I?”

“Right you are. By the way…”

“Yes?”

“I reckon it’s only actually about seven.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. See – I can reach it easy.” Fingers wriggle comfortably next to Oliver, his palm slapping the ledge.

“You’re standing on your toes,” mutters Henry.

“So? Not much and I mean: yeah, I got big feet, but…”

Leaving them to it, he considers the gap, picks up the torch and shines it down, assessing the physical size of it. The thing is that Henry probably _would_ fit, if, presumably, he could be persuaded that this was a potholing expedition and that the window wasn’t there. He sighs. He’ll have to remove the screw entirely if he wants better odds of getting through unscathed.

He’s now, at least, able to twist it by hand, which he does until something _clonks_ out on the other side. He hears a muted moan from inside the room and picks up the torch again, but is thwarted by the angle, seeing only a pale hand and arm, washed out by the glare. Pocketing the torch, he pulls the screw free entirely and says “Catch!” dropping it and hearing Isaac mutter guttural swearwords. Now all he has to do is swing his leg over the windowsill and drop into the room. He’s hoping for a convenient bookcase. What he’s not bargaining on is his leg having gone to sleep.

Henry’s voice is a touch panicked as he curses viciously under his breath. “What’s wrong?!”

“Ah, nothing. Sorry. My stupid leg’s gone numb.”

“Ah. Hmm. Well, maybe if you come down again, shake it out before trying the, uh…” Henry is a little breathless. Oh.

“I’ll be okay.”

“No, it’s alright,” says Isaac. “I’ll help you down, you can shake your leg out, then we’ll get you back up again. Easy.”

“Right.”

Getting down is an awkward process, and he can’t help thinking it would be exactly the same if he’d slid down the other side, before conceding that there would have been no helping hands that way, and a great deal more darkness. When he finally slithers gracelessly down the wall onto his good leg, eased and braked by Isaac, he looks up to find he’s very close, bracketing him. He looks further up into a slightly anxious face. “I’m fine,” he says, pointedly, eyebrows rising.

“Right you are.” Isaac steps back and he bends to shake and rub gingerly at his locked and prickling leg.

Henry tuts. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, come here.” He darts forward and crouches at Oliver’s feet. “Take your shoe off.”

“Er…”

“Okay, I’ll take it off for you?”

“Um!”

“Christ, don’t panic. I’m just going to get your leg better quicker, that’s all.”

He frowns. “Fine.”

Henry slips his laces free and his shoe off in a fraction of the time he’d have supposed. “May I touch your leg,” he points to his thigh, “here?”

“Yes. Uh, sure.” He looks up to see Isaac frowning a little. He cocks his head to one side and Isaac, meeting his eyes, opens his mouth slightly, then stops, eyes sliding, lips flattening.

“Brace yourself,” murmurs Henry, and Oliver flattens his hands against the wall as Henry vigorously and impersonally rubs his leg, focusing primary on the back, starting from the thigh and working swiftly down in a shower of sparking nerves, finishing with a brisk roll of knuckles over the sole of his foot that has him gasping. The man looks up at him. “Better?”

“Uh, much. Thanks.”

He slips his shoe on and ties it. “You’re welcome.” He stands, smoothly, right into his space, smiles at him, then, with a raise of eyebrows, backs off. “Over to you,” he says casually to Isaac.

“Right.” He walks over to Oliver, and again he feels like the guard is studying him. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I think we need to do this a bit differently.”

“Okay…”

“Right, this time you’re going up on my shoulders. Bit smoother that way, yeah? More symmetrical.”

“O-okay.”

“You done this before?”

“Not for… wait, _sitting_ on your shoulders?”

He grins a little crookedly. “Yeah.”

He sends his mind back, relaxing. “Then a good couple of decades.”

“Student?”

“Scrawny student.” He smiles. Sobers. “Is that–? I mean, I’m not too hea–”

“Nothing to it. Just turn around,” he moves obediently, “and bend your knees,” Henry coughs from behind them, “_like before_,” he says, a little more firmly, from lower down. “Bit further apart? Great, now just lean on the wall and…” pressure on his thighs; a _lot_ of pressure, his stomach flips briefly as his feet leave the floor, “away we go!”

Isaac’s shoulders are broad under him, and his hands are warm and firm over the top of his thighs. As he straightens his legs to rise, those warm, sure fingers shift against him and he bites his lips together, nothing else for it. The rise stops and he stares at the ledge, still somewhat above where his knees are. _Obviously, or Isaac would be eight feet tall!_

“So, what now?”

“Well, as I see it,” Isaac’s voice is starting to become just a little strained, “we got two choices. One: you stand up – I’ll help ya! – and kinda crawl onto the ledge there…”

“What’s two?”

“Hah, well, there’s still standing, but I turn around and you go backwards, arse-first.”

“I think I prefer that one.” He can use the wall for balance.

“Thought you might.” The fingers grip-shift again – friendly, present.

“Three,” suggests Henry drily from behind them, “you spring off his shoulders and do a forward roll. Four involves a small dog. Five is like four, only there’s fire. Six–”

“Stop!” says Isaac, who’s shaking a little as he turns. “I can’t do this and laugh at the same time!”

“Oi!” he says, gently tapping the side of the close-cropped head in front of him. “Are you impugning my skills?”

“Would I ever do such a thing, Henry?”

Henry is gazing up at him, and he really can’t parse all the layers in his face. It’s just too much, while he’s trying not to wobble, and trying not to reflexively clamp his thighs about Isaac’s face, and oh God, don’t think about that. His heels dig a little into his chest instead.

“Easy,” comes Isaac’s voice, and he feels the vibrations of that, clamps his lips together hard again. Isaac backs and his chest finds the wall. “Okay?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Right, now reach behind you and find the ledge. You ever done tricep dips?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Just like that. Good. Awesome. I’ve got your ankles,” and he does, “now push down! Wooo-oh! Yesss! _There_ you go!”

“Ooh, mind your–!” cries Henry and he ducks just in time.

“Thanks,” he manages, tucked into the alcove again.

They both give him thumbs up and he can’t help but smile at that. And now it’s easy – turn an ungainly circle on his arse, flip his feet through, pushing the window open, and shine the torch around.

The anticipated bookcase is, of course, to the left, with another to the right. There is a gap where he is, and he realises this is so that people can climb up on something like a step stool and winch the window. Which means a seven-foot drop into darkness. Which only _really_ means… he tries to calculate: _I’m six feet long, which makes my arms two-and-a-half feet long, _roughly_, which means I’m very nearly seven feet long, _really_. All I have to do is turn and go backwards and cling and–_

And fuck it. Nothing below to trip him, he’s just going to ease off down forwards like he did before, jump, and bend his knees. Just like in P.E.

What occurs to him after he’s done a couple of quick breaths and launched himself is that he was never _excellent_ at P.E. And that last time he’d been coming off a smooth ledge, not over a very solid lip of wood. And when he lands, what occurs to him is that he’s a good few stone _heavier_ than he was when he was taught how to land properly thirty-odd years ago.

“Ow,” he mutters quietly, and fishes the torch out of his pocket again, glad his couple of stumbled steps after the dismount hadn’t crashed him into Chris. He rubs his knees and plays the torch over her. She makes a whimpering noise as the beam hits her face and he’s more relieved than he can say.

“_Everything okay?!_” comes Henry’s voice in a kind of tamped-down call.

“_She’s still alive_,” he answers in a similar tone. “_Don’t know if she’s conscious, though._”

“Get the door open!” calls Isaac, who clearly has less volume control.

“_Sorry, yes!_”

“What was that?” he hears as he heads for the door.

Immediately it’s clear that this is going to be much easier than he’d feared. He dashes back to the window. “_It’s blocked with furniture! I’m going to move it!_”

It’s not exactly light, and it’s clear she didn’t move this by herself, not unless she’s doing security work as a side job to her Olympic weightlifting career. The dark shape of the other people or person in the Museum is here in the gaps in their knowledge. Trying not to think too hard about them, he shifts the chairs, then pants and swears and strains the table two feet back, decides that the others can help from the other side. He slides over it and knocks on the door, noting the way his back tells him what a terrible idea tonight has been for several reasons, starting with sleeping on the floor.

No time for that. The door creaks open and Isaac’s face peeks through, along with more light. “Need a hand?”

“You push,” he tells him, scrambling back over the table, “I’ll pull.”

“Hold on,” says Henry, and Isaac jerks back, then a tweed minnow is writhing through the gap and across the table to stand beside him. “Hello!”

“Hi. Ready?”

“Go,” he tells Isaac, who pushes until they yell at him to stop when it gets too close to Chris’s head.

“Now you see to her,” he tells Henry, urgently, passing him the torch. He’s gone in a second, murmuring gently, then saying her name sharply as she makes more of those whimpering noises.

Isaac grumbles his way heavily over the table and stands next to Oliver, mirroring his cross-armed stance. They can see the dim shape of Henry, outlined by the light he’s beaming at key points as he works his way down her, hear him telling her what he’s going to do next, washing an endless stream of reassurance over her that Oliver finds all-too familiar.

“He done this before, then?”

“Hmm?”

Isaac repeats the question.

“Oh. I don’t know. I assume so.”

“Must be reassuring.”

“What?”

“Knowing your partner’s got you covered like that.”

“Eh? Oh! Oh, no – we’re not. No. Not, um, not partners.” He can hear the descending note in his voice, wonders at it, wonders at the small shifts in Isaac’s expression; the rapid blink, the quick quirk of mouth. Unless he’s imagining that in the rocking, dim light.

“I see the other torch works after all, then,” he says, after what feels like a long moment.

“Yeah. Finally something, eh?”

“Mm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Incerta Concordia means either Unity In Adversity or In Uncertain Harmony, so I obviously couldn’t resist…


	12. In View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes: descriptions of the physical effects of violent assault; head trauma.

The stream of soothing sounds from Henry slows and ceases. They look at each other then look over at him.

“What’s the news?”

“Hm?”

“Henry?”

“What’s up?”

He runs his free hand through his hair. “It’s– Hm. Okay, I’m just going to tell you what I’ve found and see if you come to the same conclusions I do.”

“Mate, I know fuck-all about medicine–”

“That’s not–” He twists to face them, then shuffles on his knees a little so as to face them better. “Look, just listen, okay?”

“Okay.”

Henry swallows then, in a level, almost toneless voice, he tells them: “Most of the injuries I can find are to her head. She’s on her front, obviously, so there’s… I would like to turn her over, check everywhere else, with more light, but,” he takes a deep breath, “I’m a bit nervous to, if I’m honest. Maybe one of you can help in a bit. Anyway, I think her nose may be broken, and she has contusions to her temple,” he points to his own, “and the back of her head.” He sighs. “Most of the blood you saw came from her nose, I think.” A pause, and Oliver thinks that he might be grinding his teeth. “But her left hand’s a real mess. I’m going to want to immobilise that as much as possible somehow. It’s– I think it’s broken pretty badly, and she is moving a little – you heard her earlier, of course, and occasionally she responds a bit, but she’s mostly unconscious. I don’t want to risk her waking up and moving it, making things worse, anyway. Her pupils… Well, her pupil, as I can’t– I haven’t moved her, like I said, and, okay, I don’t think her neck’s broken or anything, but moving people who are that– her skull’s not broken either, but that blow at the back was from something…”

“Not just a fist,” puts in Oliver.

“Or a foot,” adds Isaac.

“No. It’s bleeding, or was, for one thing, in a way that suggests… edges.” He looks up and away for a moment, then back again.

“What was that about her eyes?” asks Oliver.

“Oh! Yes: her pupil’s reactive, so that’s good. Her breathing seems okay – not great, because of the nose, but not too worrying. I think if we can get something to stabilise her head, and then turn her on her side, I’d be happier.”

“Recovery position,” says Isaac, whose voice is likewise sober and flat.

Oliver nods, “Just tell us what to do. And maybe my jacket?” He starts to shrug it off.

A hand on his arm stops him. “Nah, take this.” There’s a rustle and he’s looking around at Isaac stripping off his uniform jumper. For a moment, the fabric beneath stretches perilously over an impressive torso, and Oliver finds himself again inhaling the scent of the man released, guiltily and deeply. It’s different from Henry’s, obviously, and they all of them smell of stress and exertion, but there’s the telltale signature below that that informs the whole, and it’s… he…

Explaining to other people how everyone smells particular and of themself is another one of those things he’s learned to dodge. The existential crisis that comes when his clothes smell of someone else is impossible to translate – people either know exactly what that means or just look excessively baffled, if not a little disgusted, as if at the sheer animalistic associations. He has strong, persistent memories of that flatmate in Leeds whose name his brain has elided, wide-eyed and frozen as he bellowed: “DON’T WEAR MY _FUCKING_ SCARF! DO YOU _UNDERSTAND_ ME, MAN?!”

And so he clamps his teeth on any reactions his face my betray, blinking rapidly, drinking in the fascinating mix of a higher yellow than Henry’s and deep blue-green that he exudes.

“Thanks,” says Henry, and his lack of joshing response about strip teases sobers Oliver in a flash.

Isaac folds it roughly and leans to hand it over.

“Aren’t you worried about getting blood on it?”

A soundless sniff-and-downturn grimace. “Nah. Ain’t mine. They gave me something so’s to look as close to her as possible. The shirt’s my own, mind.

“Very nice,” says Henry, absently, holding the jumper tight to his chest, gazing at his patient.

“Is she going to be okay?” He wants to ask if _Henry_ is okay, but he knows he won’t get an answer so much as a brush-off, if anything.

Henry worries a sleeve of the jumper through his hands for a moment. “I think so. But I’ll be happier when we get some actual medical professionals looking at her.”

“Should we move her?”

“Onto her side: yes. Out of this room? Probably not. Let’s see if we can make her comfortable first.”

They all kneel about her, Henry directing. Henry himself takes her head while Isaac rolls her, as gently and slowly as he can manage, onto her side, while Oliver cradles her hand with a slightly fearful delicacy, mindful of the tiny shifts he can feel inside it. Henry places the rolled-up jumper under her cheek and checks her breathing again. He seems satisfied. She makes a muttering moan of sound, eyelids twitching, then subsides again.

“Okay, now I’m going to splint her hand.”

“With what?”

“Good point. See if you can find anything that’s thin yet rigid–”

“Got a lot of old hardbacks here…”

“– and isn’t of incalculable historical worth.”

“Worth more than a hand, are they?”

“She’s left-handed, isn’t she?” In the uneven light of the two torches, It’s still possible to see that his jaw is clenched, his nostrils flaring.

Isaac breathes deeply and slowly. They look at him, see he’s rolling his eyes up and to the right to aid recall. “Yeah, I reckon so,” he says, gaze returning. He frowns. “Probably. I weren’t paying _that_ much attention, but s’unusual, innit? You notice it.”

“Hmm.”

“How did _you_ know?”

Henry points, uses the smaller torch. Oliver takes in the position of her radio on the floor in relation to the rest of her, the worn place on her belt where things are clipped and, of course–

His breath hisses in.

“Got there, have you?” Henry’s voice is a little harder than anyone is comfortable with.

“Hold on…” starts Isaac.

“Sorry, sorry, that was– I didn’t m– Mm. Anyway, yeah. They only smashed one hand–”

“And it was her dominant one,” he finishes. They all look at each other.

“They didn’t touch her legs, did they?” says Isaac.

“Not as far as I can tell. This was all to put her out. Sorry, I meant to let you–”

“It’s okay,” he tells him. “We got there.”

“Yeah, this ain’t ‘tripped and fell’ is it?”

“No.”

There’s a short silence, punctuated only by her slightly rasping breaths.

“Right.” Isaac seems to be physically shaking himself into action. “We need splints. Give us that?” He points at the smaller torch.

Henry nods, passes it over. Oliver’s chest aches, looking at him as Isaac heads off into the gloom of the shelves. He looks personally hurt by this; injured in some way. Oliver knows that he should probably put his hand on Henry’s arm, or say something that acknowledges his pain and their support, but he struggles with that kind of thing, and he knows very well that he does.

Instead, after a long moment, he fishes in the left hand pocket of his own jacket and hands what he finds to Henry. “Here.”

“What’s this? Ohh… Yes, that will do very well.”

“I thought: you don’t just need splints.”

“Very good. I, er, I hope this isn’t a favourite.”

“People give me ties a lot.” He shrugs. It is, in fact, quite a nice one, and goes very well with this increasingly dusty, dark blue suit, but “It’s only stuff, you know?”

“Yes.” Henry reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. “Poor Oli. You find this hard, don’t you? Sorry: Oliver.”

He’s too busy taking in the middle part. “Me? Why–?!”

“Oh. Emergencies – you don’t really do them, do you?”

He thinks about ‘urgent’ deadlines at work, and with papers, conferences, and publishers; how _that_ urgent is a very different scale from this, from Isaac separating people armed with grudges and broken bottles, shielded by alcohol and bellows.

“I suppose not,” he says, and it feels oddly like a betrayal. Because– because for once, he’s finding himself in a place where he can just _do the right thing_ and it’s because the correct elements have come together in his head, unbraked by fear or introspection because there _just isn’t time_.

“I don’t know how to splint a bone or sew up a wound, no,” he says, slowly, tasting the words but not editing them beforehand, “but this is… I’m not… _stopping myself_, and it feels… right.”

“Hmm,” agrees Henry, or he thinks he does anyway, and both of them open their mouths to speak, grin sheepishly, and gesture each other on.

“Um,” they chorus, and Isaac walks back to them sniggering and pointing, carrying something straight in his hands.

“What that, then?” asks Henry, more merry than he’s looked since Oliver slid down from the ledge the first time.

“Ruler. Your actual wooden ruler. Apparently some people still use ’em – found it in a desk drawer. Also some pencils. Don’t know if they’ll work…”

“Better than nothing,” says Henry. “A lot better. Thank you.” And finally there’s some warmth back in his voice that Oliver realises he’s barely directed at Isaac, and that this has been bothering him for a while now without him noticing, feeling himself relax a couple of notches.

“So what next?” asks Isaac, handing over the stationery.

“I strap her hand.”

“And then?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“We need,” Oliver finds himself saying, “a plan.”

Isaac is unimpressed. His fingers _tap tap tap_ on the Maglite. “Obviously.”

“Isaac?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you snap this ruler for me?”

“Why?”

“So I can… use it in several parts.”

“No, I mean: why me?”

“Because you’re stronger than me. Or Oliver, as far as I can tell. And I don’t want splinters at this stage of proceedings.”

“Yeah. I can see how that would be an… _impediment_.”

Oliver catches himself rolling his eyes, but the others are too intent on their exchange to notice.

“Mm-hm?” Henry hands it back up to him. “Do be careful, though. Maybe close your eyes? You wouldn’t want a chip to end up anywhere _but_ your shoulder.”

“Funny.”

“Also: still waiting.”

“Fine. How many bits do you want?”

“Two will do, I think. If I need more bracing, I’ll use the pencils.”

The crack rings out, even in this muted place. Oliver finds himself wondering if the room was specifically designed to be muffled, inducing hush in any scholars sharing the space. He can’t imagine they’d be thrilled with its current use as a barricaded, makeshift surgery.

“Need a hand? Or would that not be… _conducive?_”

“Absolutely, come here and hold these still, _you girt great ninny_.” The last part is muttered.

“What was that?”

Oliver pushes to his feet. These two need to bicker while they care for Chris, and he needs to think.

He paces into the dark. It’s still possible to see and his eyes, already adjusted to the ongoing dimness, serve him well enough unaided. Anonymous shelves and the occasional table pass him by. He suspects that all of this would be very impressive in the light from the large windows, but all he gets from them is the very distant lamplight reflecting obliquely off the opposite wall of the building, and the furniture is just straight-edged, darker places. He imagines it warm with oil lamp glow, then candles and the flicker of rushlight, beckoned by the scent of wood and old paper. He runs gloved fingers along the spines of familiar volumes, candlestick held wide in the other hand, hearing and smelling the fizzle of disturbed dust against the flame. Rage and grief and resignation battle in him at the scents of rot and regret where there had been laughter, curled up in a large chair, sun coming strong onto their heads, sharing a favourite passage, later telling over poems interspersed with kisses, and now he’s a ghost in his own… in…

He wrenches himself back into the Museum with a force of will he barely recognises as his own. Fucking hell. Now it’s smells as well? The sooner he gets out of here and gets some decent sleep, the better. Right now, he needs to plan. _Treat it like a project_, he realises, as if advising himself-as-another – _plot desired outcomes against resources_.

He knows how to do this.

On one side: the three of them, the various contents of their pockets, bag, and anything they may find around them. On the other: unknown people viciously bent on focused felony… In the middle: Chris, and the Museum itself. They need to secure Chris, get her help, and get out of here intact. Stopping these people is a bonus.

Something objects at a fundamental level to this last supposition. He carefully places it to one side as he assembles the elements with increasing confidence as they slot into place.

As he turns on another round of pacing he narrowly avoids ramming his thigh into the corner of a desk, and takes the opportunity to rummage around in the quarter light until he comes up with some blank paper. He wants to draw a plan out. It’s only at that point that he realises that he doesn’t need to do this for himself – he has a map of how this should… will go already, well-formed in his mind. He folds the paper into his pocket anyway and heads towards the light.

Now to tell the others.

He’s heard fragments of their conversation each time he’s circled closer. Instructions interspersed with chuckles interspersed with grumbles. At one point something to do with a handkerchief. Now he rounds the corner to hear:

“– kind of privilege that really irks me. Typical ignorant white person stance when–”

“Yeah, like _you_’d know anything about how _that_ feels…”

Henry sits back on his heels and regards Isaac with something like the beginnings of anger. His jaw cocks to one side and back.

“Ever met my mother, did you?”

“Pretty sure I’d remember, mate.”

“Well listen, _mate_, I may pass here in summer, but _you_ try being _this_ shade in _winter_, in _Scotland_, in the _eighties_… stuck in a boarding school and small to boot, and _you_…” he waves a finger as he clearly reviews his sentence, “try not getting your head kicked in.” Oliver can’t help but notice that his accent’s shifted again, the r’s standing out in his passion.

Isaac’s eyes rake him over. “Not so small now, are you?”

“Yeah, no, well. Late growth spurt, alright? Anyway, that kind of thing stays with you and oh my _God_, did you just make a _knob gag?!_”

“Maybe?”

“Fuck off.”

“Hold on – _eighties?!_”

“Yes,” says Henry, crossly, fussing briefly with the strap of his bag, as though making it more secure across his chest.

“How fucking old are you, anyway?”

Henry mutters something that sounds a lot like “Forty,” with the suggestion of at least another syllable afterwards.

“_Really?_ Fuck me, you look–”

“A complete snack, _actually_,” he snaps, “whatever age.”

Isaac convulses in silent hysterics. 

“A ‘snack’?” drawls Oliver, drawing closer. “That’s new.”

“Just because _you_ can’t chart my attractiveness on a graph, doesn’t mean that the rest of us are stumped for apt vocabulary.”

“Want to bet?”

“Which – graph or _stump?_” the latter on a challenging widening of eyes. He’s so relieved to see the humour bounce out that he can’t help but smile at him.

“You, Henry Darian, are in a great deal of trouble.”

He grins. “Promise?”

He clears his throat. “Are we done yet?”

“Think so…” Henry’s face drops back to worried. “I mean: there’s little more I can do for her except make her comfortable. And I’ve done my best.” Oliver notices that he’s cleaned some of the blood from her face, wonders if he’s supposed to do that, what with the potential for forensic evidence, then drops that into a growing category marked _Someone Else’s Problem_.

Isaac looks up at him, narrows his eyes briefly. “You’ve got a plan.”

“I,” he’s about to say _think so_ but proceeds with: “do.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

He outlines it, asking a few pertinent questions on the way. During the short talk, the others (first Isaac, then Henry) stand, which brings him a strange feeling somewhat like relief. When he’s done, he looks at them, eyebrows raised. Isaac flicks his in return. Henry’s mouth slides over to one side.

“Well?”

Isaac’s hands are on his hips. He nods. “Yeah.”

Henry scratches his neck as they look at him. “And what if you can’t get past them and get out?”

“Then we need to contain them,” he tells him. “Until morning, if needs be.”

“Risky,” says Isaac, rubbing his chin with one broad hand. He doesn’t sound unhappy.

“That’s Plan B, though.”

“Course.”

“Well then.” If he’s honest, he’d expected more argument. And yet a part of him knows, really knows, that it’s the best plan – in its several permutations – that they have.

“Plenty of room for improvisation, anyway…” says Isaac, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. Oliver rolls his eyes at Henry, and he smiles back like they’ve done this several hundred times before.

“You’ll be okay on your own?” he asks him.

Henry waves it off. “It’s not long. Besides, she might wake up.”

“Gotta warn you, though,” says Isaac, “she weren’t that chatty beforehand.”

“I’ll cope,” smiles Henry.

Isaac gives him the key and heads through the main door. Oliver helps him push the table back in front of it and, for good measure, they ram the back of a chair under the handle of the other door. Another chair under the window and a boost from Henry, whose slender frame turns out to be surprisingly sturdy, and Oliver’s back through the window and being lowered carefully by Isaac.

It’s time to try Plan A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been about ten years since I’ve studied First Aid (had a proper certificate and _everything_), but I was _really_ keen to get this chapter out of the door. If I’ve said, through Henry, anything monumentally foolish in that respect, please let me know and I’ll find a way to rectify it.
> 
> Also: Thank you for all the comments and cheerleading so far – it’s been _so_ great being back! And if anyone’s thinking Hey, AN, how come this is a Mature rating, eh? When’s it going to get beyond the subtly angsty in that regard?! I would advise you to be patient only a wee bit longer.
> 
> (Incidentally, part of me is considering a scene towards the very end that is definitely more of the Explicit than Mature; if that’s not your bag, I’ll understand, and I will, if I go that route, find a way to flag it properly for you so you don’t lose out if you skip it. Let me know, anyway! Apologies for potential spoilers, but I figure good communication is better under such circs…)


	13. Invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: mention of how untreated cleft palettes look; threats and bullying.
> 
> Warning: increasing quantities of shenanigans from here on in…

Isaac’s fist arcs through the dim light and lands with surprisingly little sound. He suspects he pulled the punch at the last moment. 

“Fuck it! Should have taken her keys. Stupid!”

The antiseptic lines of the narrow, wheelchair-accessible Courtyard Entrance are softened by the complex, fuzzy shadows from the distant light, the single emergency light insufficient to its task. The recalcitrant metal shimmies, but barely moves.

“No, it’s all right.” They’ll just have to try one of the other doors.

“It fucking isn’t!” The volume clenches alarm through him.

“_Hush!_”

“_Sorry!_”

“Also: they were already gone.”

“Wait, _what?!_”

“I checked before I left the room – her keys were already gone. I mean: if they fell off, they weren’t anywhere I could see.”

Isaac shakes his head. “You’re one hell of a cunning fucker, aren’t ya?”

“Am I? I suppose so. Academia’s a terrifying place for the unprepared…”

Isaac barks a laugh and claps him on the shoulder. They grin, right into each other’s eyes, holding the gaze for a long moment, smiles slipping, sobering into something softer.

Oliver, of course, looks away first, and Isaac clears his throat, head turning to scan the hallway. He sniffs. “Right. What next?”

“Another door?” he asks mildly, already scanning the layout in his head, trying not to think about the obvious conclusions.

A riffling chink. He turns to find Isaac looking at the keys, letting them flow through his fingers. He has a strong and sinking feeling that (his mind touches on, then shies from: _proper guard_) one of the _more senior_ security staff would have more of them.

Isaac looks up, a sad little smile on his face. “Not exactly a great start to this new start, is it?”

Startled, all he can answer is: “No,” trying to soften it with his expression, as Henry would doubtless be able to do.

“Don’t suppose they left her electronic key…?”

Henry had checked her legs during the gentle patting of his assessment, and had reported her pockets empty – surprisingly so.

“No,” he says again, this time with a shrug and a small shake of the head. Isaac disconcerts him in a different way from how Henry does. For a start, his anger is free-ranging, and has deep roots. He thinks of Henry, how his is covered with more layers, but still available to some curious triggers. He wonders why he’s thinking about an emotion he skirts so assiduously, knowing how devastatingly it can explode out of him when prodded long and hard enough.

Best not to think about that, animated memes notwithstanding.

“I lose you?”

“No. Yes.” He looks back at him. “Sorry – you were saying?”

Isaac smirks. “This happen a lot, then?”

He sighs. “More often than you’d think. Sorry. Please say that again?”

Isaac’s clearly thinking about something else, his smile still a little softer than he’s seen thus far. “Damndest thing…”

“What?”

“Have we met?”

“Er…”

“Before this, obviously. Like, you know how you see someone out of…” he clicks his fingers, “context, thassit. And you’d _swear_ they’re a stranger, but something…”

Fuck. “We’ve never met, to the best of my knowledge.”

“I’ve worked all over this town for years, mate, chances are I’ve seen you out somewhere.”

“I really doubt it.”

“I’ll work it out. Might take me a while and I’ll in my bed at six inna mornin’ and _bang!_” His fingers bunch and fly like fireworks.

He’s amused. “That happen a lot?”

“More orften than you’d think…” It takes him a moment to realise that Isaac is mimicking his voice.

He rewards this with the kind of _now, now_ look he gives his most waggish students, a kind of hooded side-eye, and is startled by Isaac’s bark of laughter, the twinkle in his eyes

“Nearly had it there. That’s a familiar look, that,” in his own voice, thank God.

He has no idea what to make of that, so just gazes at him, frowning slightly.

Isaac’s eyes travel him down and up, something he’s learned to label the Cambridge Gaze – impersonal reckoning of new, human-shaped information. “You work out?”

“Er yes, but–” he forestalls the next question with an upraised hand, “only at home.”

Isaac’s eyebrow quirks for that, for some reason, and the perusal goes on.

“I run a couple of times a week.”

“Handy,” says Isaac in a considering tone. “You party?”

“I’m guessing,” he answers, cautiously, “we’d need to define ‘party’, and probably not in any case – not for a while, anyway.”

He’s flashing back, suddenly, to a club – drowning-large, loud, frantic, the lights and beat pulsing all over and through him, dragged out on a farewell to London by colleagues he suspected were looking for an excuse to get wasted, and him feeling too guilty at his own good fortune and lack of dismay at leaving them behind not to follow. How they’d ended up there he couldn’t have told you, but he remembers with startling clarity the stranger whose strength beat through him, pawing like the strobe, the body-flickering percussion, how they’d writhed together, wordless, him welcoming tongue and fingers, the wall at his back, heaving on unaccustomed incaution, a farewell to so many things, why the fuck not, and later… his breathing starts to speed and he clamps down on the memory of the _later_ tongue, the _later_ fingers.

“– not much o’ that in Cambridge anyway, let’s face it – once a month, down that little underground–” A pause. “I lost you again, didn’t I?”

He grimaces, knows it’s one people barely ever read right, but this near-stranger just says:

“That’s all right,” acknowledging the apology at least, going on to say: “I’ll get there in the end, but I’ll not pester. Not like you’re famous and I’m making an idiot of maself, is it?”

He acknowledges that with a small nod which he hopes could be taken to mean anything, clears his throat gently. “We were talking about the next door?”

“Were we? Guess so. Only one choice, really.”

His questioning raise of eyebrows is answered with a toothy grin.

“Come on!”

They move swiftly through Armoury (a fleeting pang), arts of various continents, and the long, thin gallery that connects the hubs of this place, but when his feet ring on the hard, patterned floor as the space opens out, Isaac turns back with a tut.

“That won’t do, will it?”

“What?” They’re murmuring, and he feels the hall’s acoustic catch and fling each sound upward all the same.

“Too noisy.”

“You want me to take my shoes off?” He’s horrified, tries not to expose it.

“Nah, you’ll be slidin’ about in no time. Not very dignified.” A hard grin. “And no tippy-toes either,” he tells him as he opens his mouth, “might as well strap a tambourine to ya. Nah, you got to roll your feet, heel to toe,” he demonstrates, “see?”

Murmuring instead of whispering. Right. He nods, watches, tries it. Isaac’s thick-soled boots don’t clomp, as he’d expect – they absorb the percussion practically before it’s even started.

“Not exactly fast,” he murmurs, drily.

“I reckon if we need fast, _quiet_ will be the least of our fucking problems.”

They reach the main doors in almost total silence, the keys clenched in the muffle of Isaac’s fist. Unfortunately, it’s immediately clear on opening his fingers that none of them fit.

_Fuck_, mouths the guard.

He nods, mouth slanted in regret and sympathy, holds his hand up, mouths his suggestion, watches nothing register on Isaac’s face, tries again. Nothing.

Bugger. He considers miming. Imagines Isaac laughing helplessly and loud. No. Isaac bends in, then, beckoning close and warm, turns his head, and he leans to his ear, murmurs: “Emergency exit?”

“Huh,” mutters Isaac, then breathes: “Alarms?”

He pulls back slowly (reluctantly), pantomimes a shrug.

A nod. They’ll risk it. Best case scenario: they can get out and the… _marauders_, he finds himself thinking, will turn tail and run from the building. (Again, that objection from the pit of himself.) Second best: no alarms and they exit silently, phone the police and ambulance, then return to guard Chris and Henry.

Third and fourth best involve far too many variables.

As they march back along the wooden floor through the joining gallery, Isaac says: “That don’t work, we’re breaking one o’ those big fucking windows, right?”

He’s pretty sure that such a scenario will go worse for Isaac than for him, so he grimaces awkwardly, a pinch of mouth that’s the equivalent of a shrug.

As it turns out, he ends up grabbing Isaac’s forearm when they round a junction, halfway to the exits at the back, signalling frantically (ear point, forward point, ear point, forward point, scared face).

_Fuck_, mouths Isaac. He nods. They skitter back the way they came to duck behind a corner and listen hard, Oliver thinking furiously all the while.

They need to regroup, start Plan B. They wait until the murmur and clomping (more than one or just the acoustics?) heads to the Courtauld Staircase, heave deep sighs, then jog back down the narrow gallery and head upstairs.

On the way up, two steps at a time, they pant out an extension of Plan B between them.

“So, why are we… doing it like this again?”

“Because I have… ridiculously sensitive… hearing, and you’re… a drummer.”

“That’s… fair, actually.” A pause as they reach the top, Isaac’s hands back on his hips. “But look – when it comes to peering round corners, let me go first, yeah?”

He frowns over at him. Isaac is looking a mix of earnest and sober. He nods: _go on_.

They reach the first doorway, filled with heavy double doors, and Isaac unlocks it with a sigh of relief, then lays his hand gently on the enormous, painted jamb. Through the glass, the next gallery stretches out beyond, the walls a disconcerting mixture of reds, oranges, pale wood tones, and a dirty shade of white. Isaac taps twice, very softly, with his hand.

“See?”

“What? Ohh…”

“Yeah, your pasty face is going to stand out a mile unless I can make you blush.” He sniffs. “Let me do that bit.”

“Er, of course.”

“Wicked.” He slips sideways, giving ground with a small gesture.

Oliver leans to the corner, straining his hearing hard. Hyperacusis may, for once, be the saving of him. His left ear’s always been more sensitive, so he turns and tilts his head accordingly, hears the tick of cooling wood and masonry, the whisper of his own blood, the faint roar of the underpinning systems in the building. Presumably, temperature and water are on a different circuit? system? from lights and doors, because something is still humming and sighing. Closer to there’s the slightly stertorous nature of Isaac’s breathing. Very few people, in his experience, can actually breathe silently, and he’s guessing a drummer would be more affected than average.

_He_ doesn’t need the element of surprise, though, does he? _He_ just needs to take a couple of oversized strides and pull all those muscles together in concert. _Wham!_

_Stop thinking about his muscles and his breathing and get back to listening_.

All seems clear. He beckons him on and they run to the next outcrop of wall, then again, and on into this floor’s version of the long gallery connecting the two main parts of the Museum, surrounded by a disconcerting number of images of the Mother and Child. His mind flashes to Henry for a second, remembering the glint of gold at his neck. Then they’re in among impatient-looking nobles in impractical poses. Then another section, then another, each time pausing to listen, swap, look, and murmuring onwards, slower now, heel-to-toe, Isaac going first each time, then swapping as they reach each segment divider. Then the end of the gallery is in front of them and he realises that he has no idea what to do next. The Courtauld Stairway is ahead and to their left, but the villains have long-since gone from the area. And without knowing what they’re after, whether they’re the kind to go clockwise or anticlockwise, he feels stuck, unable to best say which way to go.

“What now?”

“_Shh!_” Finger to lips he glares.

“_Sorry!_”

On a whim he points Isaac out and to the right. They are in… he checks: the 16th-18th Century. More Italian art. Okay. At the end of that, duck-sprint-duck-sprint, he pauses, on the border with Spain, the collaboration with the Flemish (that he mostly knows only in terms of the finances of the English participation in the Thirty Years War) extending to art and culture, at least in this gallery.

Again he pauses, knowing they must be closer, frozen, guts twining in a soup of frigid indecision.

A clatter. No, it’s a bird on the roof, briefly disturbed and resettling itself, maybe by the car that swishes along the front, probably not at the mandated 20 miles per hour, not at this time.

“Anyth–?”

The whisper sounds harsh and unnecessarily loud. Without thinking, without looking, he reaches back with his right hand, two fingers to signal _hush_, but they land on warm skin and– oh, and bristles. Isaac’s mouth slams to a halt. He keeps his fingers there, desperately trying to ignore the plush, mobile heat, the texture of beard, desperately _not_ exploring what his increasingly sensitised fingers are telling him, leaning still to listen. Is that a moth? A creak and rustle, faint but deafening, comes from behind him as Isaac takes a half-step closer. Lips part slightly against his fingers and he can feel the breath ghosting over them.

No. His breath hitches. _No, he can’t._ He can feel… feel the doorjamb against his left arm and shoulder, hear an old building and his blood speeding through his veins as he unaccountably does not shift his hand, and another rustle as Isaac steps closer again. “Oli–”

“_Hush!_”

Several things happen in swift succession:

Isaac opens his mouth further and nips gently at his fingers.

Oliver feels a thud of desire like a gut punch.

He turns and pulls his arm closer in one movement, rolling along the wall away from the doorway, eyes wide, eyebrows up, lips parting.

Isaac steps in, following his hand, leaning, brows rising, asking.

Oliver answers with a tilt of chin, swept away, no decisions to be made.

Their mouths collide and Oliver finds himself clawing at the wall with one hand, Isaac’s shoulder with the other on a muffled, voiceless _hunh!_ It’s bruising-hard, all teeth and panting until Isaac grips the back of his head, tilts them both, and _mmh_, it’s warm and wet and so, _so_ good, it’s been _so long_, Isaac crowding him back against the wall, pinning him with his whole body, which feels as solid as he would have imagined, and he’s lashing deep with his tongue in return, feeling Isaac’s breath stutter into his mouth, the stifled groan straining at the back of his throat, vibrating into Oliver and oh _fuck_, just like that he’s swelling, can feel his eyes rolling, _fuck!_ as Isaac cups his face, closes his lips around his tongue, caresses it with his own, just briefly, just enough for the obvious comparison to send a fresh wave of lust through his body.

He breaks off to heave air into himself, staring wildly up at Isaac, who’s looking just as confounded.

“Wha’… jus’appened…?”

He shrugs, feeling a little desperate, swallows convulsively. “Opportunistic lunacy?”

Isaac blinks rapidly. “Why the _fuck_ do I feel like we’ve done that before?”

“We can’t do that again,” he blurts, watches hurt tumble over him, hardening, drawing back. He catches him by the bicep. “Not _now_, I mean. Not…” his voice, already strained, loses traction and force, breath wobbling as he imagines, in a brief flash, _later_, “_right_ now…”

Isaac, face softening again, reaches to smooth a thumb lightly over his cheek, and he trembles under its care. He closes his eyes as it reaches his mouth, parts against it without conscious thought, hears Isaac hiss a curse under his breath as he caresses briefly with lip and tongue.

“What happened here?” It’s very gentle. 

Oh. He opens his eyes, releases his digit on a nip and a kiss. “I was born with it.” He shrugs. “Could have been worse.” He dismisses with the ease of practice the instant images, the babies grinning around voids that consume mouth, nose, palette, the adults who couldn’t receive the care he did, instead reaching up, own thumb tracing a path over the man’s brow and cheek for no reason he can name – it feels right, so he keeps doing it, fingers feathering out towards his hairline.

“Mmh.” Isaac, thoroughly distracted, is leaning in again, and he tilts his head, reaches up to claim another kiss, this time soft and wondering. He closes his eyes, thinks he could lose himself in this so easily…

When he pushes gently at the man’s chest to break off again, Isaac growls softly, leans his forehead on Oliver’s, one hand cupped, possessive, at the back of his neck.

“Come on,” he tells him. “For one thing, Henry will kill us.”

“Oh!” Again the hurt. “I thought you said you weren’t–”

“We’re not. Probably. It’s–”

“_Complicated?_” An ironic twist of mouth.

“Confusing,” he confesses. “We never met before today.”

“And yet…”

“Exactly.” He smiles up at him. “Besides, I think right now he’d be more vexed at us abandoning our posts.”

Isaac growls again, gently rolls his hips against him, and Oliver feels his whole torso stutter at the sensation.

“Oh, I ain’t abandoning _your_ post…” Oliver fails to stifle a voiceless laugh. “Unless you don–”

“Oh, I do. _Seriously_. Just think of this as a… temporary hiatus.”

“A tactical withdrawal.”

“Something like that. Come on.” He turns to the doorway again, hearing Isaac move in behind him.

“_Told_ you this was a weird place to cop off in.”

“Oh, hush…”

“Make me,” he whispers, sounding so close, hand settling slowly on his shoulder, and Oliver feels chills erupt erupt over his scalp and down his spine, licks his lips and bites down, trying to focus. He feels so close to _Fuck It_ that he can feel contradictory messages trembling up and down the muscles of his back, shoulders, neck, forces himself to relax in place (though the thought of being massaged back into line has more than a little to do with it).

Then another spark, nasty, a sensation cutting across everything else, like being tapped on the side of the head by a single fingernail. It’s bright red, shot with yellow. He holds a hand up. Isaac literally holds his breath as Oliver leans in, then shoos him back.

A creak of door? floor? and a sharp sound of… metal striking glass?

“For _fuck_’s sake,” hisses a voice clamped under layers of tension, impatience ringing in every syllable.

“Sorry!”

Footsteps cease. “Put ’em in your fucking pocket.”

“Sorry, Luke.”

“Twat.”

Despite nearly every instinct telling him to dart away, Oliver forces himself to move back slowly and carefully before the owners of the voices come into view. He pulls out his phone and types **Two men over to the left. Look?** in the SMS app, shows it to Isaac.

He nods, eyes wide, slides around Oliver and bends down to peer even more slowly through the doorway.

“I gotta ask, though,” says the lighter voice (male, he thinks – West Country?), “What we lookin’ for? Coz none o’ this looks liftable, you ask me.”

It’s a room full of paintings, furniture, life-size busts, the occasional large vase.

“I didn’t,” snarls the other, shortly.

“On’y,” and there’s a drag of foot, “i’s getting late, like.”

“Missing your bedtime?” A deep breath from one of them, then silence. “It’ll be worth it. Trust me.” Mancunian. He’s almost sure of it. He’d know Leeds and there’s a growl deep in these words that shudders across him.

Movement, crossing the room, getting closer to their doorway. Shit. He taps softly on Isaac’s bare forearm, watches him tense and shake his head, reaches a hand up as he thinks to pull him back then: _No. Trust him_.

Yes.

So he waits, brain split between _holy-shit-they’re-coming-and-we’re-stuck_ and the colder element that tells him: Plan. Map. Visualise and move on.

He blinks rapidly, seeing several scenarios and zooming in on each at a time. _It’s like chess_, he realises. _Exactly like fucking _chess!

The voices are closer, each move of his opponent narrowing down his options, each one leaving a path he can follow.

It’s going to be fine. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.

Hot on this thought comes: _We’re not giving them Henry. I’ll take whatever hand-stompings they dole out; they’re not getting him._ He’s astonished at the ferocity of it.

The footsteps scuff across the doorway, but not before Isaac’s eased back, the pair of them waiting with their backs to the dividing wall, breath constrained to as shallow as they can make it. Following Isaac’s lead, he slides with him to crouch, wide-eyed. They’ve nothing to hide behind, but they’re no longer at eye height.

“Fuck!” Yes, definitely Mancunian – there’s no _FocK!_ quite like it.

“What’s up?”

“Not _fucking_ here!” A weird rattling scrape. Isaac looks at Oliver.

“Erm, wha’s not?” Oliver twigs, sketches the shape of a vase in the air.

“Never you fucking mind.” Isaac frowns, nose wrinkling and eyes huge. Oliver points crossly at another one, further down the gallery they’re currently in. Isaac mouths _Oh!_, frown clearing as Oliver nods.

Slightly uneven footsteps come close to the doorway and they freeze again. “What’s in this next one?” It’s horribly loud, suddenly.

A rustle, the flap of unfolding paper. “Says ’ere–”

“Gimme that!” Steps away and a rustle. “More fucking paintings.”

They both slump a little.

“Yeah. Like I said: ground floor’s more…”

“Shut it. Right, must be back… wait. Hold on, what’s _this?_”

Beside him, Isaac stops breathing entirely.

“Locked door?”

“Genius – knew I had you along for some reason! Get busy, boy.”

A long, steady exhalation from Isaac.

A sigh from the other. “Alright, but wh–?”

A snarl and a loud rustle of cloth. “It’s not a metaphysical fucking debate, son – we’re going through that door.”

The other’s voice sounds strangled. “Yep, yep. Just let me–”

“Course,” his tone all light and reasonable now. Another rustle and a faint thump. Heels settling on a wooden floor?

Rattles and scratchings. “This one works.”

“Well done. Good lad.”

The door handle clatters and Isaac grabs Oliver, pulls him down and across, pushing his head past the doorway, nearly on the floor. Catching himself with one forearm to the floor, he looks up. One slender, white man with strawberry blonde hair is pushing open the door to presumably another reading room or library. Another man, stockier, taller, black-gloved, with a hood up over his head, has his back to them, facing the key-holder.

“Oh, and Joe…”

“Yes, Luke?”

“Question me again and we’ll be having more than words. Is that understood?” He then puts his hands on his hips with a theatrical kind of emphasis. The body of his hoodie rises. Oliver feels his eyes widen and his neck and shoulders lock. He bites his lips together, holds his breath to prevent himself from gasping aloud.

“Y-es, Luke.”

“Good lad. After you.” The smoothly insincere courtesy chills him that much deeper, and he finds his fingers fisting in the material of Isaac’s trouser leg.

The door closes and Isaac pulls him back up.

“Sorry ’bout that!”

“No problem.” He brushes himself down. “Good idea, actually.”

He nods acknowledgement of this. “Are we fucking off now?”

“Yes, we fucking are.”

“Back to Henry?”

“Back to Henry. We– we can’t leave him alone. Not…”

“No.”

Everything’s changed. This is going to need the three of them. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chunkier chapter than usual. I’ve got a busy few days ahead of me, so I hope this tides you over if I can’t make it back to the Museum in the meantime.
> 
> This is already longer than the longest single thing I’ve written on here ([this segment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17120915) of the [War series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1137809), apparently), and is going to be short-novel-length by the time it’s done. Considering I only started writing this at the beginning of the month, as a writer’s block-breaking exercise, I don’t really feel the need to engage with NaNoWriMo this year except as a cheerleader!
> 
> Oh, and I do have a plan, by the way. I know exactly where everyone is heading, I’m just still working out how they’re _getting_ there…


	14. In Flagrante Delicto

The secret with all strategy games, he’s been told, repeatedly, is learning how to think like your opponent. Somehow, despite some of this being decades ago (chess club) and some of it coming from sources he despises (his father, one particularly annoying cousin), this has stuck, and he’s experiencing the mental equivalent of trying to tease out individual threads from a single, tangled ball of other threads in order to find a pattern.

The fact that it’s a fairly small ball doesn’t worry him – he’s probably got all the required data, he just needs to find the right way to interrogate it, and this is what he’s attempting as Isaac occasionally steers him around corners with a warm, firm hand to the elbow as they half-jog along the corridors back to where Henry and Chris are sequestered.

Then, of course, the memory of that crushing, tender kiss keeps intruding, in minute, vivid detail that has him biting his lip and frowning.

_Focus, idiot – time for that later._

Much later.

Then there’s the accompanying flare of guilt when he thinks of Henry’s assiduous care, and the offer that was clearly being made to him that… but he doesn’t owe Henry anything.

But maybe he’d like to. Wants to. Oh, _hell…_

_Anyway_, he has: the specific injuries inflicted on Chris; the technological issues; the pair of them openly skulking around the Museum as if they don’t expect to be caught; the dynamic between them; Luke’s hunt (which isn’t Joe’s); the fact that they’re using a paper-based map of the premises; them having blocked Chris in but not… oh…

The thought strikes him so hard he rocks to a stop.

“What?”

“It’s them – they’re blocking our mobile signals. Why take her keys but not her radio? Why not stamp the radio flat?”

“Because they reckoned it wouldn’t work,” says Isaac, slowly.

“Exactly. They don’t know that the blocker only disrupts phones. It’s their tech, but they don’t know how it works.” He looks up at him, sees a slowly spreading grin on his face.

“Kinell, you got the right kinda brain for this, ain’t ya?”

He acknowledges this with a weary chuff of laughter. “Apparently so.”

“Here, what do you teach again?”

He blinks for the non-sequitur, answers dinner party automatically: “Economics. Er, socioeconomics, specifically, with a special interest in UK economic history.”

“Right. So you’re good with maths…”

He’s fielded this one before, so his reply is born of nearly two decades of caution: “In specific contexts, yes. I get computer programmes to do all the heavy lifting, to be fair, so–”

“Yeah, yeah, fair play. I was pretty good at maths myself, actually. At school.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah, and the moment it really clicked was when we did a couple of sessions on logic. Made algebra _much_ easier.”

“Oh right?” He’s smiling now. He’s got an image of a smaller, studious Isaac in class with a cartoon lightbulb lighting up (ping!) over his head.

“Yeah. Was useful for Electronics too.” He winces. “Always wished I’d taken that further, to be honest.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah. I’d be fucking minted now, for a start. _Anyway_,” he says, heavily, and Oliver understands that he needs to listen more carefully now, that Isaac has been thinking about something too, “one of the things I always liked was the bit lots of people don’t always get.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. You’ve studied this yourself, yeah?”

“A, er, a while ago, but yes – I think I remember the basics.”

“Anway, it’s about OR.” He raises his eyebrows at him.

“OR?” He’s used this in Excel, obviously. “If either of these values is true, then proceed?”

“Yeah: OR. So, like, mmh, there’s a difference between OR and XOR.”

“Er… Oh. Exclusive OR.”

“Tha’s right. Yeah, see, people always assume that OR is exclusive, but it’s not unless that’s explicit, logically. Right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, it’s that moment when you realise that OR can also be AND. Or not. But it’s fine either way. That’s the beauty of it.”

He blinks. Isaac is peering at him in the gloom. He looks nervous and eager and–

Oh.

Oh _right_.

“Right,” he says aloud. “Right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

They stare at each other a moment longer.

“So, er–”

“Best crack on,” says Isaac, then he grins, and it’s blinding for a moment, slaps Oliver on the shoulder, and steers him away.

As they round the corner to the reading room corridor, Isaac says: “O’ course, they fucked her up pretty badly.”

“Hmm?” He’s been trying quite hard not to think about _AND_…

“Even if they thought the radio wouldn’t work, they made sure she couldn’t do nothin’ else.”

“Yes. You think it was both of them?”

“I think it don’t fucking matter.”

“Ah.”

“You do, though.”

“I’m trying…” how does he put this into words? “I’m trying to get a feel for him.”

“Who?”

“Luke.”

“Oh. Like ’em medium-sized, dark, and violent, do ya?”

“Eh?”

“‘Get a feel’? Never mind.”

“Oh. No. I’m trying t–” He sighs. “I can only work this in my head if I think of it like a game, and he’s the opponent I have to match.”

“Right, so, you need to know which way to turn – work out which direction he’s going to lob the ball or whatever, yeah?”

“Ye-yes.”

“Makes sense.” He sniffs, slow. “But why’re you doing this in your head?”

“Because it takes me longer to say out loud?”

“You know we could help – me an’ him, yeah? It don’t need to be all on you. In fact, it’s my fuckin’ job, l– innit? _I_ should be the one planning…”

“Oh. Er.” Should he apologise? “I’m s–”

“Don’t be fuckin’ daft – I’m getting the impression you’re good at the longer view, I’m more of an on-the-spot thinker, as it were. Good team.”

Team. He looks at him sidelong. “So you think I’m more inclined to long-term and you to short-term, is that what you’re telling me?”

“No…” he says, very slowly. “Though that’s a philosophical conversation we should probably be having later. Like: out of here and on the outside of a very large drink and some sleep and a good breakfast kind of later.”

“I see…” he finds he’s more amused than worried, and shows it with a small smile.

Isaac grins in return. The man has dimples you could hide things in, and his eyes all-but disappear. It’s very distracting.

They stop under the window and Oliver eyes it resignedly.

“’ere,” Isaac nudges him “dja reckon he’ll be reading her any of his poetry?”

“Probably,” he says, wryly, “though presumably not the French stuff he read me earlier…”

“He writes in _French?_”

“It was some 16th Century poet, called, er–”

“_No_,” says Isaac patiently, “I mean his _own_ stuff…”

“Er, _his_…?”

“Yeah, he not tell ya?”

“Apparently not.” He frowns, head down, feeling–

“What d’ya reckon it’s like?”

“Hmm? Oh, abstract and filthy, I suspect.” He has absolutely no idea what he’s feeling right now – the swirl of emotions is inconveniently strong.

“Hah!” He smirks. “Genital metaphors aplenty…”

“Well, he did say he was fond of _ass_onance.”

Isaac snorts quietly. “Tell you that, did he?”

“Shamelessly.”

“That’s my boy. Right, you ready?”

He nods. “Same as before?”

“Your thighs either side of my neck?” Isaac’s words slow to something like a caress.

He feels his face drop open, bites his lip, closes his eyes, focuses on his breath.

“Sorry, you okay? Was that–?”

“Well,” he says, cracking one eye open, “I suspect it’ll be a great deal harder–” he gives Isaac an _easy there_ expression, “getting through that window with an erection.”

Isaac nearly chokes trying to suppress his cackle. He grins up at him.

“So many layers to you,” says the man, his tone turning wondering.

“Like an onion.” He turns to face the wall, forgoes the obvious jokes.

“Hah. Okay. Right. Let’s get you up.”

“As opposed to vice versa,” he says over his shoulder, bending his legs.

“You gotta stop, mate,” says Isaac earnestly. “I can’t be laughing and horny _and_ lifting ya…”

“Look on it as an opportunity to practise multitasking.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare, you are,” comes the muffled voice before the grip-and-push.

He rises, oddly happy, resists running his fingers across Isaac’s scalp, suspecting that this would not help the man focus, files the desire away as an ambition.

“Oli?”

“Oliver.”

“Oh. Right. Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“What are we going to tell him?”

“The truth,” he says, before he can even think about it. “That’s all we can tell him.” He raps softly on the pane: tap, tap, tap, pause, tap-tap.

“Secret knock, is it?”

“Our initials – O, I.”

A soft set of claps from inside: **O.K.**

Isaac starts to turn, grunting lightly. “Might’a… _known_ you were a… scout or whatever.”

“No, but I was a very lonely kid with a large library at my disposal.”

“What, no, _ooop! sorry!_ brothers or sisters?”

“One brother.”

“Not close?”

“Not any more.”

“Right. Henry knows… Morse code, does he?”

“It was his idea.”

A silent chuckle shakes the shoulders under him. “Course it… was.” The wall catches his back. “You ready?”

“Go.”

Push, _heave_, duck, turn, slither, shorter drop, chair complains, hop to the floor and Henry’s hugging him, which he simultaneously didn’t expect and is entirely unsurprised by.

“Sorry!” He steps back.

He smiles lightly at him, keeping his hands on his shoulders, hopes it comes across properly. “A little starved of company?”

“You have no idea. So: I take it from your demeanour it didn’t go so well?”

“You have no idea.” But how can you tell?

A soft knock on the main door.

“Isaac?”

“I sincerely hope so. Key?”

“Here.”

“Thanks. Hmm, actually,” he holds it towards him, “could you do the sliding-over the table part? My back really doesn’t like me right now.” Henry just nods, not realising what a minor miracle has just occurred, and Oliver’s not about to tell him.

Between them they heave (gently, using better form) and slither and creak the doors open their minimal amount to let Isaac squeeze through, whereupon he closes and locks them immediately, then gives Henry a brief but crushing hug. Henry looks a touch poleaxed, but follows him over the table with no fuss but plenty of searching glances.

“She alright?” Oliver flattens his lips and turns away, ashamed to have forgotten to ask explicitly.

Henry nods. “Her breathing is okay, and occasionally she makes the odd sort of grumbly-muttery sound, but yeah,” he shrugs, “no change.”

“Well that’s good, in a way, yeah?”

“I guess.” Henry pulls at his beard briefly, heaves a sigh. “So, go on – tell me why you’re back here and looking like messengers pleading not to be shot?”

Oliver stretches and twists while Isaac gets Henry up to speed, interjecting every so often, until they reach the sighting.

“Two of them?”

“Yeah. One medium height, one shortish.”

Henry looks at Oliver. “And in non-giant terms?”

He smirks briefly. “Both around medium height, though the younger one was slighter.”

“Anything else about them?”

“British natives, from their voices. One from Manchester, the other… West Country?”

“What? Nah, Joe’s local.”

“What?”

“Yeah – that’s a Fens accent, that. Web-footed flaaatlaanders, ennit, boy?”

Oliver shakes his head on a raise of eyebrows, turning to Henry, who’s expression is absent, calculating.

“Anything else?”

“Names: Joe and Luke. Luke’s probably older, definitely the boss.”

“Definitely nastier,” puts in Isaac.

“Right.” Henry’s thinking hard. “So the next thing is containment, like you said?”

“Yes.”

“So we film them first?”

“Er, yes?”

“With our mobiles – since the cameras are out.”

“So, why?”

“Evidence. Suspicions are useless unless you’re caught in the act.”

Isaac coughs. He feels himself redden. “Yes.”

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“There’s something we, er, we need to tell you…”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.” Isaac looks incredibly serious. “Henry…”

“Yes?”

He sighs. “They had a gun.”

He just stares between them for a moment before coughing out a humourless kind of laugh. “A _gun_.”

“Yeah.”

“A _real_ gun?”

“He didn’t fire it, but Joe clearly thought it was real.”

“It was real,” says Isaac, flatly.

“And you’d know because…?”

“You don’t wanna know. It’s more boring than it sounds and we don’t have time. It was real.” Oliver nods.

“Okay. Right. And you didn’t flee through the nearest fire exit, alarms be buggered, _why?_”

Isaac frowns, puzzled. “Because you were ’ere.”

“Oh.” Oliver rather thinks the other man has gone pink. “Er, right. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” he tells him, and Henry turns to his voice, carrying his blush with him. “But now we’re onto Plan B. Well, Plan B.2 – the part where we engage armed robbers because we can’t get out of the building without triggering the alarm.”

They all nod, taking a moment to hold each of the others’ gaze.

Looking back, he wonders about this moment a great deal. None of them once balked, talked about holing up in the room until daybreak and calling for help once the others have got what they’ve come for. None of them started piling more furniture against the doors. The reasoning, barely spoken between them, was that they couldn’t wait – Chris needed medical attention and safety sooner rather than later.

The _reason_ was… something else, and was never spoken aloud. At least, not yet.

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting around disconsolately, though Oliver’s enjoying time on a proper chair. Henry’s watching his phone spin on the polished table, his lips occasionally twitching as though he’s saying something.

_Maybe he’s reciting a poem_, he thinks. _Maybe saying a prayer_.

Isaac sniffs, scrubs his hand over half his face, then sneaks a look at Oliver which travels over his lips and throat before catching his eyes. Oliver feels like he can’t afford to be thinking about that, but, in the absence of anything more solid to consider, the animal parts of his brain are nudging him. He deliberately turns his head away, thinking that they’re not really being fair by Henry, his original partner in crime, but that now really isn’t the time to…

Wait.

“Henry…”

He takes a breath that is more than half yawn. “Ye-es?”

“You never did finish telling me the end of your plan… your _original_ plan, that is.”

Henry frowns and colours slightly when he realises what Oliver’s talking about. “Oh, um, should we be…?”

“Indulge me.”

He smiles at that – soft, with a hint of the day’s devilry showing through. “Okay, so you mean after you’d snuck us into the Armoury by hiding and skulking, following the pattern of the cameras so very cleverly?”

“What’s this?” Isaac sounds amused and intrigued.

“Well,” says Henry, and stretches. Fully. Properly, swaying from his hips as he does so, eyes slitted in that very carnal pleasure. After a moment, Oliver tears his eyes away to watch Isaac watching Henry stretch and thinks: _Ah. Yes._

“When you’ve _quite_ finished,” he drawls, returning his gaze.

Henry grins, settles his shoulders, and sits forward, legs spreading comfortably, as he tells his tale.

“That’s…” says Isaac as soon as he’s finished. “Wait. _You_’re saying,” he says to Oliver, “we should.”

Oliver is bolt upright, hand over his mouth and eyes skittering as he takes in the notion, seeing it map out. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“And then what?”

“And then we need a diversion.”

“Jesus, that’s bold.”

“Yes.”

Henry’s eyes are narrowed. “How? You’re basically saying we need to call them out, but we don’t know where they’ll be because we don’t know what they want.”

He opens his mouth to argue, shuts it again for the lack of content.

“Hold on,” says Isaac slowly. “Call them out?”

“Yes…?”

“I– Hm.”

“What?” demands Henry.

“Poor Henry,” he drawls. “You find this hard, don’t you?”

“What?” And there it is again – the lengthened vowel of tweaked emotion: _Whaut?_

“Deferred gratification,” he says. “You don’t really do it, do you?”

“I do nothing _but_,” he snaps, but his eyes are sparkling, and he mouths _Touché_ at him. They both turn, fighting smirks, to stare at Isaac.

“I have a terrible idea,” he admits mouth twisting up and down, hedging its bets.

“Well, you’ve heard ours,” he replies, fairly.

“Oi!” Henry pulls a face at him. “Fine, let’s hear it,” he beckons Isaac, sitting forward.

He tells them.

“Well, that _is_ terrible,” says Oliver, leaning back after a moment’s silence. Henry is still forward, his expression all attention.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck it. It’s honestly our best option.”

“I’m still game to break some windows, to be fair.”

“The best plan that doesn’t involve you losing your job.” Isaac opens his mouth with a glint in his eye, “And facing a big fine.”

“And here I thought you the kind of gentleman to help a brother out with his debts.”

“But I can’t help with your reputation.”

Isaac smiles at that, slow and lazy, and he can control his expression but not, it appears, his blood, creeping up his neck to try and burn his cheeks. He can see Henry looking curiously between them out of the corner of his eye.

“Well?” he demands, as imperiously as any of his cousins asking for a clean knife for the third course after dropping theirs on the floor, “do you want to _continue_ having a job in security?”

“Mmh,” Isaac concedes with a twist of mouth. “Not like drumming’s putting much food on the table. And don’t _you_,” he points at Henry, “go talking romantic bollocks about living your artistic dream being more important than job stability, coz that’s the kind o–”

“I worked my way through nearly every course I ever took from the age of sixteen upwards,” he returns, coolly. “The rest of it was grants, and one year I slept in a friend’s cupboard for three months. You were saying…?”

Isaac looks away briefly, blinking rapidly. “‘Sorry for calling you posh earlier’?”

“Well,” he says, nodding gracefully, “it was that or be a lawyer, and that was never going to happen.”

“Shame.”

“How so?”

“Well, I know a lot of lawyer jokes, as it goes.”

“I was nearly a lawyer,” puts in Oliver.

“_Really?!_”

“No. Shall we get back to planning this anti-heist?”

“Fine…”

*

“I feel bad for leaving her.”

“Don’t.” Henry looks up at Isaac. “I mean: it’s that or hope they fuck off before it’s too late to get her an ambulance. Or we could use her as a battering ram to get through the window.”

“You really didn’t take to her.”

Isaac shrugs. “I didn’t, but fair play: I barely had time to.”

“And yet, dare I say it: you’ve taken to us.”

He sniffs. “Ain’t got much bleedin’ choice, ’ave I?”

“I wonder.”

“What?”

“Do you deliberately broaden your accent when you feel emotionally uncomfortable?”

“If nobody minds,” hisses Oliver, “I’d appreciate some fucking help before just jumping down and potentially breaking my fucking ankle.”

“You didn’t the first time,” points out Isaac, even as he moves around to underneath him, raises his hands.

“What am I supposed to do – leap into your arms like a damsel in distress?”

“You ain’t wearin’ a dress.” He turns around. “If your back ain’t up to it, then slide onto my shoulders and we’ll do it that way.”

“Okay. Sorry. Thanks.”

“No worries.”

Oliver looks over to see Henry smirking at him. He rolls his eyes. This doesn’t appear to have any effect.

Reverse operation done, with only a little muffled swearing from both parties, they head off.

“Besides,” he tells Isaac, “you’d need to carry her downstairs to do that. And I’m not helping.”

“Fair play. Can’t weigh more’n you.”

Henry makes a stifled sound of protest. Isaac chuckles.

“I’ve left her a note,” Oliver tells him, quietly.

“Oh. That’s. Thanks.”

He nods.

“What’s that?”

“Sorry – just telling Henry that I left her a note, explaining. Well, some of it.”

“Didja sign it?”

“No.”

“See? Makings of a proper criminal brain.” Henry doesn’t even bother to smother his smirk, huffing a silent chuckle.

Oliver slants his wryest look at the pair of them, and they assemble almost identical looks of… of _naughty innocence_.

Presenting his blankest, haughtiest face, he groans inwardly. He is in a great deal of trouble. Luckily, he’s not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [In flagrante delicto](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_flagrante_delicto) is a Latin phrase meaning in a blazing wrong, or while the crime is blazing. The more modern English equivalent would be caught in the act (which colloquial equivalent is arguably the phrase caught red-handed). Like so many of these Latin phrases, it is used as a legal term.
> 
> Among the laity, its more common use is a euphemism meaning interrupted during a sexual act. In context, I always got the impression that it was specifically used for interrupted during a sexual act _one wasn’t supposed to be undertaking_. In retrospect, that fine distinction was probably an early sign of my ongoing sex-positive philosophy as an adult…


	15. In Absentia Lucis, Tenebrae Vincunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to speakers of both French and Scots dialect for any egregious errors. Translations available on hover-over and in the end notes.

“Go on, then.”

“You talkin’ to me? Coz I ain’t got the keys for any o’ this…”

“No – I was talking to him. This was _his_ idea.”

“You don’t have keys for much, do you?”

“No, and I’m beginnin’ to think that ain’t an accident, either…”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m suggesting that our friend’s suspicions may not be erroneous.”

“Right. So, what do you need?”

“I need you to go listen out for our other friends, and _you_ to come here and hold the light steady.”

“What, here?”

“So, I’ll just…”

“There’s a good chap.”

“Don’t take too long?”

“I will take _exactly_ as long as I need to.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Haha. Over here, yes.”

“Blimey. _Really?_”

“Really. Hush.”

“Bloody _hell!_”

“_Shhh!_”

“_Sorry!_”

“It’s just: there’s just not much point in me listening out for them if–”

“Point taken.” 

“Okay, can you change the angle? I need – brilliant. Hold it there. Perfect.”

“That’s good for you, is it?”

“Hah. Thanks.”

“You do look good on your knees. Doesn’t he, Oliver?”

“…”

“Are you blushin’? _Again?!_”

“Shut _up!_”

“Bloody hell, you’re good at that!”

“You’re just doing this to wind Oliver up, aren’t you?”

“At least fifty percent…”

“Well, you might want to consi– Ah. Heh. You tricky little…”

“Everything okay over there?”

“Yeah, looks like!”

“Shh!”

“Heh.”

“Come on, darling.”

“I can’t believe you’re– What the _fuck_ is it you teach, anyway?!”

“Depends what you’re willing to learn… Now shut up – Uncle Henry’s very busy and needs to concentrate.”

_prrrap, prrrap, prrrap._

_prrrap, prrrap, prrrap._

_prrraprrrap, tsst_

_prrraprrrap, pok_

_prrraprrrap, tsst_

_prrraprrrap, pok_

_prraprrap, tsstsstsst_

_prrap, tsst, pok_

_prraprrap, tsstsstsst_

_prrap, tsst–_

“Oh my days!”

“Yes.”

“You only bloody did it!”

“Yes, unflatteringly incredulous admiration is what I live for.”

“Hah. _Oi! Oli!_”

“He doesn’t like that.”

“Oh, sorry – yeah. _Pssst! Oliver!_”

“Did you know that you whisper louder than some people talk normally?”

“Yeah, I’m an acoustic miracle, me. Come and look.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Here, Oliver. Take it.”

“Oh.”

“Oh _my_. Help me up, will you?”

“Sure. _Oh_, I _get_ it now.”

“See?”

“I–”

“Oh, no need to thank me.”

“Shush.”

“I–”

“Come on then, mate – Part Two?”

“Give him a moment.”

“Okay. Fuck me – his _eyes_, though.”

“I know.”

“_Fuck_.”

“I _know_.”

*

“Right, how do I look?”

“Seriously?” Isaac raises an eyebrow.

“Not like _that_. Like: can I pull it off?”

He snorts.

“_You_ are hopeless. Oliver?”

Isaac frowns, shaking his head. “I wouldn–”

“Mmh. Yes?”

“How do I look?”

“Oh, fine. Very nice.”

“Okay, now while looking at me.”

Oliver wrenches his thoughts back, and it feels like… one of the hardest things he’s ever done. He feels like he’s treading water in a desert – the best analogue he has is the side-effects of the most extreme sleep deprivation he’s ever survived, with a side-helping of faint but definite, wildly inappropriate arousal as reality shifts in layers around him. Luckily, no-one’s asked him for an analogy yet, as he’s not entirely sure what would come out of his mouth if he tried.

“Mate, are you okay?”

“I’m–” he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, looking up and out at the others again as he does so. He can do this. “I’m finding this all a bit strange, but I’m fine.” This is a field and a barn and a building site and a tree, and in all the shifting, they stay solid, outlined, illiminal.

“Okay, then.” Isaac has his arms crossed, fingers of his uppermost hand drumming soundlessly, and yet their percussion moves across him… it’s one of those sensations that he has categorised and recognises, but has no English word for.

When this is all over, he’s going to join some synaesthete online groups or something and find out if this is just him, shimmering through a world that radiates strangeness in familiar ways–

“_I said_,” projects Isaac, with the ease of a man whose working life has involved environmental decibel ratings starting at 100 until Henry bashes his upper arm, hard, “what do you think of Henry, then?”

He screws his eyes up, shakes his head hard, and stares at Henry, who blinks at him worriedly. He’s wearing Oliver’s jacket, has buttoned up his shirt, and has clearly attempted to tame his hair with his fingers. He holds Isaac’s tie dangling from one hand.

Isaac spots where his gaze is pointing. “Yeah, he’ll obviously put the tie on.”

“Obviously.”

“Hmm,” he says, imagining it. “Okay, but the hair will never do.”

Henry looks so cross he’s almost pouting, and he realises later that it’s that which drags him the step closer to them both.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t–”

“No,” says Henry on a descending note. “You’re right.” He looks up, one big shrug. “What can I do, though?”

He remembers, clear as anything he’s thinking now, the calculating image of him taking Henry’s hair in his hands and pulling it back in a messy kind of sailor’s knot, but the boom of sails takes him somewhere else. He steps forward.

Henry squeaks, takes a half-step back when he raises his hands.

“Ain’t you gonna put that down?” prompts Isaac, terribly gently.

Ah. Yes.

“Um, never mind,” he mumbles. “I was just going to see if we could tie it back.”

“As long as you weren’t going to try cutting it!” quips Henry, only slightly shakily, as Isaac says:

“With what?”

“Elastic band?”

“Oh. Yeah. No. Ah, wait.” His eyes skitter in calculation. “Wait here.”

“O-kay,” says Henry as he disappears. He eyes Oliver sidelong. “You alright?”

“Hmm?” It’s all a bit… bland around here. Too many straight lines and pale surfaces. Even in the dim, oddly even light, it’s… wrong; too shiny, somehow.

Henry cocks his head to one side, tries on a smile. “Ça va, Olivier?”

“Ah, oui – bien sûr.”

Henry takes a sharp breath and lets it out, very, very slowly through gently pursed lips. He rubs the base of his thumb over the bridge of his nose, frowning into the gesture, looking, abruptly, terribly tired.

“Et tu, mon ami?”

Henry lets out the tiniest of high-pitched sounds. “Uh, yeah, oui, merci.” He looks up, cocks his head again. “Tu peux me comprendre dans cette langue, oui?”

“Ah, oui. Pourquoi?”

“Huh!” It’s mildly hysterical, a good half-octave higher than usual. “Pourquoi pas? Ça passe le temps, non?”

“Mmh,” he agrees, looking around him with lively interest. He frowns. “Ou est-t’il?”

Another deep breath. “Je sais pas. Er, m-mon coeur, repo– non, _pose_ l’épée? S’il te plaît?”

“Ah, non. Pas pour le moment.” He continues his survey, listening, listening, listening.

Henry’s eyes widen and his jaw sets. He asks, stiffly: “Pour moi?”

“Ah. Pour ton confort,” he shrugs. “Bien sûr.” He twists, then blinks. That’s not–

“S-sur le carrelage? N-non, le parquet, sol… augh! Baise!”

He’s laughing now, close-mouthed, and fond. “Pour toi, mon frère, ici…” He props it in a corner, smiles at him: _See?_ Frowns, puzzled.

“_Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Oliver!_” he whispers, fiercely, scrubbing his free hand over his face.

“Hmm?”

Henry throws his hands up. It’s perfectly Gallic and it looks terrible with his jacket, somehow. He grins.

“Here, let me get that tie for you.”

Henry stares at him, wide-eyed. “Er, right. Sure. Yes. Please. Mm-hm?”

Isaac pants back to them as Oliver tightens a perfect Half-Windsor, stepping back to admire the view and smoothing down Henry’s collar as he does so.

“Very nice,” approves Isaac. “Something borrowed, something blue.”

Henry reaches up and strokes it, a little pink in the face. Oliver had perforce stood somewhat close, occasionally brushing Henry’s neck and murmuring soft, automatic, somewhat insincere apologies.

“Well?” asks Oliver.

“I prefer a Balthus, myself,” says Henry, with an arch of eyebrow.

“Of course you do. However, this is one of the two I can tie on someone else.”

“The other being a Four-in-Hand, I assume.”

“Obviously.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “_Splendid_. We ready?”

“What have you got there?” His hands are behind his back.

“Hair solution.”

Henry eyes him warily. “What?”

“Uniform cap.” He produces it with the air of magician.

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“I look like a massive tit, is why.”

“I bet you don’t,” smirks Henry, who appears to have recovered a lot of his composure. He takes the hat from Isaac and puts it on, scooping his hair up under the band. The transformation is slightly eerie.

“And now? How do I look?”

“Weird,” says Isaac, then pulls a conciliatory face. “I mean: not like you. Which is the right th– help me out here,” he demands, turning to Oliver.

“You look great,” he tells him. “Now, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I mean: we’ve got other options.”

“This is the best.”

“It’s the craziest!” retorts Isaac.

“Fuck it,” says Henry. “What else are we going to do? Pelt them with hummus?” He stares between them. “Just me?”

“Hummus?”

“Nerd joke,” sighs Henry. “Never mind.” He eyes them both. “We discussed all the options. This is the only one that covers everything. Also? I trust you. We’re running out of time; let’s do this.”

“Yes, sir,” says Isaac, snapping a salute. Henry crosses his eyes at him. Oliver grins.

“Got everything?”

Henry pats his belt. “Yes. You?”

“Yes. Oh, wait.” He crosses to the corner, sees Henry’s hand go out to grab Isaac’s arm, but when he looks up, they’re both stood normally, gazing at him determinedly calmly. “What?”

“Nothing. On you go.”

“Right.” He picks it up. “Gentlemen? Shall we?”

*

The radio on the plinth, turned up to its maximum volume, crackles and bellows: “Chris, you read me, over?” Silence, then a rustle and the crunch of footsteps. “Chris, stop playin’ aboot. Wheer are ye?” More crunching. “Fer fuck’s sake, woman! Ah’ve come aun shift and ye’re no here. No seen the new fella either. Fucken temps, eh?”

Isaac shakes his head, murmurs through his teeth: “What the actual fuck is he–?”

Oliver puts a hand on his arm. “Come on.”

“Why the fuckin’ Scotch voice, though?”

“I’m guessing,” he murmurs, “that he thought he needed to sound more working class, and this was the most convincing accent he felt he could do.”

“Twat.”

“Well, yes. Good job he just has to be loud.”

“Yeah. Good job he’s pretty an’ all.”

“Now, now. Focus.”

Henry’s voice boom-crackles something about _newbies_ and _bad attitudes_.

Isaac growls. Oliver cups his jaw one-handed, pulls, and kisses him, hard.

Isaac looks stunned. “What was _that_ for?!”

He arches an eyebrow. “Luck?” He’ll tell him how the growling sound affects him later.

“Okay, I’m feeling luckier now.”

“Good. Because I think we have movement.”

Faintly, from the other end of the galleries: “What the _fuck_ is this?”

“Radio?”

“I can see it’s a fucking radio. Who the _fuck_’s on the other end?”

“Ah’m doon the canteen, anywey,” bellows Henry, in the manner of a man who doesn’t trust the technology to carry his voice sufficiently. “Ah’ll go up Main n do Three, then across, right? Aw the fuckin’ lights are aff, case ye _haudn’t fucken noticed_, eh?”

“Right, gimme that map!” comes to them faintly.

“_Go!_”

They hare away. As Isaac said before – speed trumps silence, but he thinks they’ve got enough of a head-start that only someone with his hearing would notice. And it’s not like they’re running in hobnails.

A quick, mutual, fumbled squeeze of forearm, and they separate, as planned, in Four. Plenty of hiding places here, especially in this light.

*

Henry puffs steadily up the main stairs, phone to his ear. “Aye, naw, Ah’m tellin’ ye – nae fuckin’ lights at aw. Weel, okay, the wee emergency wans. And Ah’ve no seen hide nae hair ae either uv um. Aye. Naw. Well, mebbe. S’just– Aye, sorry, goawn.”

He strolls towards the doors to the gallery, picks out the key and rattles it in the lock, tucking the phone against his shoulder. “Haud awn. Aye, Ah’m up Three the noo. Unlocked, apparently. Aye, weel, _obviously_ Ah’ll keep goin’, n Ah’ll let ye knaw, aye? Right.” A beep. A mutter, carried on the echoing acoustic: “Fucken balloon. Wanker’s tellin’ _me_. Fuck’s sake.” His volume increases to a fine gulder as he crosses the gallery rapidly and strides through British into French 17th Century Art: “Oi! Chris! Ye up here playin’ wi’ yirsel’, eh? Stupid coo. Ah’ve telt the boss, aye, so ye’re in big–”

“Stop there.”

“Who the _fuck_’re you?”

“I’m askin’ the questions. _You_’re not supposed to be here.”

“_Ah_’m no supposed tae–?!” A gasp. “Jesus, son, _fuck_, don’t–”

Henry’s voice twists, and Luke’s crosses slowly as he circles, saying:

“I have very little time and even less patience. And, as you can see, a very persuasive argument.”

“Right. Eh. Right.” A shaky breath. “Whit d’ye waunt?”

“I’m after some papers. Would you know where they keep them?”

“P-papers? Ehm. The office? Ah-Ah cuid–”

“No, no. Not administrative stuff. _Old_ papers.”

“Ehm. Look. Ah jist dae the night shift, eh? Ye waunt wan ae the professors, ken? They’re no here the noo.” Oliver tries not to roll his eyes. _The noo_. Once they’re out of this, he’s going to talk to Henry about over-egging things.

“I know. Oddly enough.”

“Ah knaw nothin’, pal.”

“You’ve been here a while, yeah?”

“Ehm. On’y just arrived aun shift, likes, eh?”

“Working here. You’ve worked here a while?”

“Yeah? Aye? Like, fourteen years, near enough.”

“And your accent’s not rusted in all that time.”

“Ma accent?”

“Yeah.”

“Ehm… Look, Ah’m no– Ah doan…”

“Okay, look,” and the smooth, civilised voice is back, the gentle man, “this is making you nervous, yeah? I’ll lower it, see?” Click. “Safety’s on.”

“Jesus, Jesus.” Henry’s voice is shaking. Despite everything else, Oliver finds himself _impressed_.

“You’re all right.” A very soft swish. “There. Now we can see each other better.” The hood, right. “Look, I just want to know where– hm.” A deep breath in through the nose to slow himself down. “There’s a collection: genealogies. I need to fetch one in particular.”

“Ah’m so sorry, Ah– Ah _really_ doan–”

“Came in recently. Wouldn’t have been a big fuss. Not yet. Just need a look at ’em, that’s all.”

Oliver frowns. There’s something– no, a _few_ things off about this, given his behaviour. He shakes his head. No time for that now. Focus. Containment.

Keep Henry safe.

“Listen, Ah’ve nae–”

“Jim, is it?”

“Uh, aye?”

“Right, Jim, we need your help. This stuff’s worth a lot to the right people. We can split it with ya…”

A cough. “Lu– mh!” Joe cuts off; clearly Luke’s given him a quelling look.

Oliver eases his legs out, one at a time. He’s not been crouched so long that he’ll definitely have cramp, but it’s been a difficult few hours, physically, and he’s not keen to gamble.

“I’m not promising much, Jim; I’m not going to lie to you about that, but definitely more than a month’s salary in this place. _Think_ about it.”

“A month, ye say?”

“Aye. Maybe more. Out of my share.”

“That’s a shame, so’t is.”

“Why’s that, Jim?”

“Ah’ve still nae idea whit ye waunt or wheer ut’s likely tae be.”

“Genealogy records,” says Luke again, slow and patient, voice stacked with goodwill. “Histories. Histories of families. Family trees. Old ones – few centuries or so ago. Ringing any bells?”

“Weel noo.” Henry’s voice comes just as slowly, as though he’s honestly racking his brains.

“Luke, come _on!_”

“Joe, I swear – you keep interrupting, and I’ll have to give you a proper lesson in f-manners.”

Pleasant and reasonable are starting to slide off the man’s tone now, like… like badly-applied greasepaint. Oliver eases his legs out again, rolls his shoulders. He has a strong feeling that everything is about to shift, and swiftly.

“Noo, wheer aw huv ye tried?”

“What?”

“Ehm.” Henry slows right down. “Wheer all have you tried?”

“Why?”

“Just waunt tae, ye ken, cut doon the possibilities, eh?”

“I don’t know the names. Give us that map,” he snaps, voice shifting, so it’s clear he’s turned towards Joe.

“Ah kin help…” Wait. Henry’s moving towards them. Shit.

“You stay there. Fucker, I said you _stay there!_”

“_NO!_”

Oliver stands, knees going off like firecrackers after all, but Isaac is much, much quicker, the echoes of his shout still reverberating as he plants himself between the raised gun and Henry.

“Easy now…” A Scottish gloss is still on Henry’s voice, as if it takes a while to transition between one state and another.

“Get your hands up! Do it now!”

And Isaac raises his hands very slowly, his body still square between Henry and Luke, then light beams out from his left and hits Luke full in the eyes.

As he curses, squints, and threatens, Oliver takes this one chance and strides out smoothly, raising his right arm and levelling it at Luke’s neck as Isaac drops the torch and it rolls. “Gone. See?”

“What the _fuck_ is that?” His head stays where it is, but his eyes move and his stance shifts slightly, careful of the steel at his neck.

“Luke, he’s got a fucking _sword!_”

“Robbed a display case, did ya?”

He adds a little pressure, wins a small grunt. “Something like that.”

Luke’s eyes roll in the dimness, still not deigning to turn his face Oliver’s way. “Pal, you’ve got an antique, I’ve got a carbon fibre automatic pistol.”

“This blade has survived war and poverty and loss and centuries of time. I think it’ll survive a trip through your carotid artery. Or is it the jugular? I can never remember which side is which…”

“Oliver…”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Henry?”

“No-one’s going anywhere until I’ve got what I came for.”

“Doubt that. You’ll drop your weapon, or I’ll drop you.”

“He’ll die first – you want to pit your toy against… _uhh…_” as he presses in closer. Luke swallows, and it’s a dry click in the heavy-breathing silence of the room. “You want to bet your friend’s life?”

“I’m willing to bet his speed and intelligence against your nerve. And I’m willing to bet my arm against your finger. You kill him and that’s murder. I kill you and that’s self defence. May only horribly injure you – if that’s the jugular instead. Still can’t remember which way around it is. Listen to my voice, my _accent_ – anyone coming in here is going to believe me over you. Fair? Not especially, but in this instance, completely just. Either way, I’m walking out of here tonight and you’re fucked. _Pal._”

“My colleague–”

“– won’t do a damned thing. He doesn’t have a gun and he’s too sensible to risk his neck for your dream.”

“How do you know he d–”

“He’s either got one and he’s too nervous to use it, or he’s not got one. Either way: he’s not brought it to bear. _Either way_: same difference.”

“Joe–”

“Fuck off, Luke, I’m not having any o’ this.”

“You cowardly little _fuck!_”

“I didn’t sign up for this. It was supposed to be an easy job. In-and-out, like he said.” Oliver doesn’t dare risk a glance at the others. He drills his gaze into Luke’s profile, alert to any shift coming at him through the blade. “And now you’re on this stupid _quest_ or whatev–”

“_You shut your fucking mouth, you useless _cunt_, or I _swear–!”

“Swear,” says Oliver, as Luke turns. “Swear. Go on.”

And now the gun’s on him. The gun’s on him and the tip of the blade is digging into the soft part under the man’s jaw. It must have broken the skin by now. It _must_ have.

“Fucking do it,” the man whispers, staring him dead in the eye. “Fucking. _Do. It._”

The gun rises further, his thumb rising to disengage the safety, and Oliver feels his whole arm tense, signals flaring all the way to the base of his spine, his left leg set to lift and lunge, propel his hand forward with the weight of his body behind it. He is entirely in the moment and nothing other than ready. Because that’s what he’s asking, with his wide, dark gaze: _are you fucking ready?_

A click.

He’s ready.

“Isaac!” Henry cries.

A shuffle to the side. Luke’s eyes slide as Oliver’s stay trained on him and then Isaac’s fist answers all the questions in one perfect blow. Oliver whips the blade out of the way as the man staggers, his gun hand held across his body by the wrist in a twisting, iron grip, gets his nose pulled into an upswinging knee with a hideous crunch, goes down. Isaac kicks him in the head, and Oliver starts breathing again.

“Ah-ah-ah,” comes Henry’s voice out of the swaying darkness. There’s a heavy, clattering _shhhh!_ and Oliver understands that the gun has been kicked away. “Hold him down,” he’s saying to Isaac, “and I’ll check him for other weapons.”

“He’s out.”

“You _think_ he’s out.”

“I’m the one should be searching the perp.”

“No,” he says, all patience, “_you_’re the one holding him down because you’ve got arms like I’ve got thighs and _I_ can’t guarantee his–”

“Fine.”

“Er.” It’s the other thief. Joe.

“Do you have anything pertinent to add, Joe?” asks Oliver, finally lowering his blade so his can see the thief’s face, it having been pointing the younger man’s way since he got it out of Isaac’s path, telling himself that he _does not feel the strain_ in his arm. “Because I’m more than willing to give you a good lesson in manners myself right now.”

He cringes. “Er. No, sir.”

“Nothing you can add to our store of information as to why you two are here and how you managed to bypass our security?”

A noise comes from the huddle on the floor, reminiscent of someone starting to say “Our?” and then getting poked into a throat clearing.

“Wish I could help, sir, but he just brought me in, said the Big Cheese had it all covered, we just had to get around the reduced security detail and pinch a bunch of stuff. Never mentioned nothing about stupid old books – no offence, like, but what’s that worth, even in specialist markets? Nah, this is bullshit, and there weren’t nothing about clobbering the other fellow neither. He all right?”

“Should be,” says Henry. “Of course, if she’s _stopped_ breathing in the meantime, since we’ve been dealing with–”

The other thief audibly swallows. “That’s accessory. I know that much.”

“And is there any _more_ you know?” Oliver is again astonished to hear his own voice like this: crisp, cold, the kind of command impossible to shake off.

“I swear – I don’t know nothin’. We was here for easy stuff: gold; silver; jade, though that’s more tricky now, course; small bits of pottery and statuary, that kind o’ thing. Then he goes all off track, ’cept it was clearly his track all along, ennit?”

“So why bring _you_ in?”

“I’m good wi’ locks, see? And not all o’ this place’s electronic, ennit?”

“Yeah,” says Isaac, heavily, “we know.”

“Get him on his side,” says Henry. “I don’t want him choking on his own tongue – or blood. Not after you’ve gone to all this trouble to keep him alive.”

“Hm. He clear?”

“Apart from a couple of nasty little toys,” a short clatter, “we’re good.”

“Right. We need to get this one secured in a non-hazardous way, and all the _toys_ in a box or something.”

“Fingerprints,” says Oliver, quietly.

“Ah,” says Henry after a short pause. “Yes.”

“What about me?” says Joe, plaintively.

“You come with us for the moment,” Oliver tells him. “I have more questions about this Big Cheese, and I just _know_ you’ll have something further locked away in that skull of yours; we merely need to jog your memory.”

Joe’s feet shuffle rapidly. “Joe?” The question is quiet and… silky, somehow.

The shuffle halts. “Yes sir?”

“This is nearly three-and-a-half feet of the finest French steel, forged by masters, designed with a single purpose in mind. I don’t have to be particularly close to cause you a surprisingly large amount of damage, but I’d _hate_ to be inconvenienced like that; would you?”

Everyone can hear Joe’s breathing as he runs through the permutations.

Oliver assays a couple of swishes through the air. They sound absolutely gorgeous. For a breathless moment, he doesn’t know how he’ll cope, never hearing this again. He rests the tip of the blade against the floor with a distinctively reverberating tap.

“I hear _some_ people can even throw them remarkably accurately,” remarks Henry airily. Isaac grunts something like a laugh. All of Joe’s breath goes out in a rush.

“I’ll come along of you, sirs, if you don’t mind.”

“Good choice, lad. After you,” he gestures politely, knowing the echo that will make, willing to use that, use _anything_ that comes to his hand.

Isaac heaves Luke up, positions him in a kind of fireman’s lift, hands bound with his liberated tie. Henry takes off the cap and, jacket sleeve over one hand, bundles the assorted toys into it, picking up the gun with an expression that is very difficult to read. Isaac in the lead, they head off, Joe scuffing along after Henry, Oliver behind, sword poised nonchalantly over his shoulder.

“You’re not going to try to run, are you, Joe?”

“No, sir.” He nods. “Gotta ask though, sir…?”

“Yes?”

“Who _are_ you?”

“Me?”

“All of yer.”

“Us?” Henry looks over his shoulder and winks. Oliver smiles back and continues: “We’re no-one special.”

“Christ,” he moans. “I am in so much fuckin’ trouble.”

“Only if you disappoint us, Joe. For a start, would you like to tell us where the signal blocker is?”

“Wait, that’s still workin’?”

“You’re a smart lad. What do you think?”

“I think _he_” a nod to Henry, “was pretendin’, to wind Luke up. Not that _that_’s difficult.”

“Okay, once you’ve shown us the blocker and given us back the keys, you can tell us all about Luke.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Right…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hats off to those of you who write compelling action scenes. This is _hard!_
> 
> #### Translations
> 
> (If you’ve any corrections, please let me know.)
> 
> ##### Latin
> 
> “In Absentia Lucis, Tenebrae Vincunt”: “in the absence of light, darkness prevails”
> 
> ##### French
> 
> “Ça va, Olivier?”: “[Are you] Alright, Oliver?”
> 
> “Ah, oui – bien sûr.”: “Ah, yes – of course.”
> 
> “Et tu, mon ami?”: “And you*, my friend?” *singular/ informal
> 
> “Uh, yeah, oui, merci.”: “Uh, yeah, yes, thanks.”
> 
> “Tu peux me comprendre dans cette langue, oui?”: “You* can understand me in this language, yes? *singular/ informal
> 
> “Ah, oui. Pourquoi?”: “Ah, yes. Why?”
> 
> “Pourquoi pas? Ça passe le temps, non?”: “Why not? It passes the time, no [doesn’t it]?”
> 
> “Ou est-t’il?”: “Where is he?”
> 
> “Je sais pas. Er, m-mon coeur, repo– non, _pose_ l’épée? S’il te plaît?”: “I dunno. Er, m-my heart [dear], put do– no, put _up_ the sword? Please?”
> 
> “Ah, non. Pas pour le moment.”: “Ah, no. Not for the moment.”
> 
> “Pour moi?”: “For me?”
> 
> “Ah. Pour ton confort.”: “Ah. For your comfort.”
> 
> “Bien sûr.”: “Of course”
> 
> “Ou est–?”: “Where is–”
> 
> “S-sur le carrelage? N-non, le parquet, sol… augh! Baise!”: “O-on the floor tiles? N-no, the flooring, ground… augh! Fuck!”
> 
> “Pour toi, mon frère, ici…”: “For you, my brother, here…”
> 
> ##### Scots/ Edinburgh dialect
> 
> (Somewhere between the Scots dialect I was taught as a child and Irvine Welsh’s spelling of Edinburgh dialect/ accent; with apologies to my ancestors and Mr. Welsh.)
> 
> “Chris, stop playin’ aboot. Wheer are ye?”: “Chris, stop playing about. Where are you?”
> 
> “Fer fuck’s sake, woman! Ah’ve come aun shift and ye’re no here. No seen the new fella either. Fucken temps, eh?”: “For fuck’s sake, woman! I’ve started my shift and you’re not here. Haven’t seen the new fellow either. Fucking temps, eh?”
> 
> “Ah’m doon the canteen, anywey.”: “I’m in the cafeteria anyway.”
> 
> “Ah’ll go up Main n do Three, then across, right? Aw the fuckin’ lights are aff, case ye haudn’t fucken noticed, eh?”: “I’ll go up Main and do Three, then across, right? All the fucking lights are off, in case you hadn’t fucking noticed, eh?”
> 
> “Aye, naw, Ah’m tellin’ ye – nae fuckin’ lights at aw. Weel, okay, the wee emergency wans. And Ah’ve no seen hide nae hair ae either uv um. Aye. Naw. Well, mebbe. S’just– Aye, sorry, goawn.”: “Yes, no, I’m telling you – no fucking lights at all. Well, okay, the small emergency ones. And I haven’t seen hide nor hair [any sign] of either of them. Yes. No. Well, maybe. It’s just– Yes, sorry, go on.” [I’m particularly vexed that I might be better off using gwan, but that doesn’t look right _either!_
> 
> “Haud awn. Aye, Ah’m up Three the noo. Unlocked, apparently. Aye, weel, obviously Ah’ll keep goin’, n Ah’ll let ye knaw, aye? Right.”: “Hold on. Yes, I’m up in Three right now. Unlocked, apparently. Yes, well, obviously I’ll keep going, and I’ll let you know, yes [won’t I]? Right.”
> 
> “Fucken balloon. Wanker’s tellin’ _me_. Fuck’s sake.”: “Fucking waste of words. That jerk’s telling _me_. For fuck’s sake.”
> 
> gulder: a particularly coarse bellow
> 
> “Oi! Chris! Ye up here playin’ wi’ yirsel’, eh? Stupid coo. Ah’ve telt the boss, aye, so ye’re in big–”: “Oi! Chris! Are you up here playing with yourself? Stupid cow. I’ve told the boss, right, so you’re in big–”
> 
> “_Ah_’m no supposed tae–?!”: “_I_’m not supposed to–?!”
> 
> “Whit d’ye waunt?”: “What do you want?”
> 
> “P-papers? Ehm. The office? Ah-Ah cuid–”: “P-papers? Um. The office? I-I could–”
> 
> “Ehm. Look. Ah jist dae the night shift, eh? Ye waunt wan ae the professors, ken? They’re no here the noo.”: “Um. Look. I just do the night shift, right? You want one of the professors, you know? They’re not here right now.” [Oliver’s rolling his eyes at the noo because it’s a classic Scots cliché.]
> 
> “Ah knaw nothin’, pal.”: “I know nothing, mate.”
> 
> “Ehm. On’y just arrived aun shift, likes, eh?”: “Um. Only just arrived on [my] shift, you know?”
> 
> “Yeah? Aye? Like, fourteen years, near enough.”: “Yeah? Yes? Like: nearly fourteen years, I suppose.”
> 
> “Ma accent?”: “My accent?”
> 
> “Ehm… Look, Ah’m no– Ah doan…”: “Um… Look, I’m not– I don’t…”
> 
> “Ah’m so sorry, Ah– Ah really doan–”: “I’m so sorry, I– I really don’t–”
> 
> “Listen, Ah’ve nae–”: “Listen, I haven’t–”
> 
> “Uh, aye?”: “Uh, yes?”
> 
> “That’s a shame, so’t is.”: “That’s definitely a shame.”
> 
> “Ah’ve still nae idea whit ye waunt or wheer ut’s likely tae be.”: “I’ve still no idea what you want or where it’s likely to be.”
> 
> “Weel noo.”: “Well now”
> 
> “Noo, wheer aw huv ye tried?”: “Now, what are all the places that you’ve tried?”
> 
> “Just waunt tae, ye ken, cut doon the possibilities, eh?”: “Just want to, you know, cut down the possibilities, right?”
> 
> “Ah kin help…”: “I can help…”


	16. Intent

There is a version that’s emerging – although Joe was initially vaguely optimistic of his chances of being let go for his cooperation, they reminded him that he’d still broken the law – and it’s a compromise that is probably the best anyone can hope for.

In exchange for handing everything back in short order, and telling them all he knows about Luke Walden, someone Joe calls A Man of Business (Isaac grunts a nod, arms tightly folded, says he’ll explain later), they have concocted this adaptation between them where Joe was dragged along at gunpoint to unlock what needed to be unlocked. Isaac will attest that Joe (Green, from Chatteris) hadn’t taken part in any threats of violence, and that he’d looked very scared and been extremely relieved and cooperative on Walden being taken down. Joe has asked for – and received – a punch to the face so that any friends of The Businessman won’t think he gave in too easily, which will be passed off as an unfortunate and accidental outcome of the scuffle in which Isaac downed Walden.

No mention is to be made of Oliver and Henry. They’re phantoms, as far as anyone’s concerned. Somehow, the police will need to be convinced that these were figments of Walden’s post-concussion imagination. What sword? All the swords are safely under lock and key, fingerprint-free (case and all).

What Joe can’t do is make the cameras come back on again. He only knows what he’s been told, and precious little at that, after all. He doesn’t know what Walden was really looking for, only that he was particularly keen to get hold of “Something like a pamphlet only really old, but not, you know, scary-old, just, like, a coupla centuries or similar.”

This, as Henry tells them, is a shame, with the kind of twinkle that Oliver is coming to associate with his friend being about to make a joke.

“Why?” he asks, dutifully.

“Well, it would have been great to say we’d caught him by the incunables.” He looks around. “No? Just me?”

“Probably,” Oliver tells him. They are walking towards the stairs to the guards’ office, where Henry’s bag, waistcoat, and jacket are waiting, having just successfully turned off the signal blocker (stashed in a rucksack in one of the lockers, the key for which was in Walden’s pocket). Isaac is on his phone, telling the emergency services operator exactly what is needed and where. Walden has been locked in the Reading Room, cable-tied to a chair, and Joe is locked in with Chris, on his honour not to try to break out using a paperclip, holding a wad of paper towels soaked in cold water over his eye. They neglected to mention the window entrance.

Oliver, using Isaac’s card, beeps them into the now-lit office, power restored to security and lights, even if it’s going to take an expert to fix the cameras. Isaac’s dubious about the chances of the Museum opening tomorrow; Lester will doubtless want to take the system apart bit-by-bit, for a start. Henry strolls over to his effects, fluffing up his hair with a sound of relief as he does so, while Oliver props the door open, waiting for Isaac. He feels remarkably calm and clear now. Not done – not yet – but something perilously close to peaceful.

“Thanks, yeah – see you shortly,” echoes down the corridor. He clatters down the stairs at double-speed, grins at Oliver poking his head out and barrels into the room. “Ambulance is on its way. Police too.”

“Right.” The adventure is nearly over.

“No more excitement,” says Henry, who’s perched on the table again, legs swinging.

“Well, no – not unless either of you fancies goading a bloke with a gun? No?”

He feels remorse tumbling through him, feels his face dropping, looks up to Isaac. “I’m so sorry, I–”

“Shut up – it worked.”

“Hell of a fucking gamble.” He hasn’t given himself time to think about this, the full import of–

“Most flattering thing anyone’s ever said about me.” Isaac is grinning – full and warm.

He smiles weakly. “What, the ‘speed and intelligence’ bit?”

“Zackly. But I played the same stakes, essentially.”

“What?”

“Your focus and trust against his nerves.”

“‘Trust’?”

“Your eyes never even flickered.”

“Ah. Yes.” Isaac and Henry were always going to do exactly the right thing. Trust. Yes.

Oh. _Oh_, the _magnitude_ of the thing. The– No, no, there’s got to be no room to feel the terror. Not. Not yet. Just.

Trust.

“Oh, God.” He sags. Finally, he feels like he can just… let go. As his knees buckle slightly, a strong arm catches him about the waist and Isaac’s scent billows around him.

“Easy…”

“Mmmh.”

“Thought we’d lost you.”

“Never going to happen.”

There’s a wordless, nearly voiceless sound from Henry as Isaac rests their foreheads together and Oliver smiles against the narrow gap of air that shapes what he’s sure is Isaac’s matching smile, and all at once he can let go of this, too. He brushes his nose against Isaac’s, hears the man chuckle on a sigh, claims his mouth in a soft press that deepens slowly, almost chastely.

Almost.

Henry clears his throat. “Um. I’ll just. I mean, if you don’t, I’ll just, uh…” They are, after all, standing in the doorway.

They smile shyly (and slyly), straight into each other’s eyes. “He doesn’t get it, does he?” murmurs Isaac, just loud enough to be heard across the room.

Another weight drops. “Do you want to tell him or shall I?”

“I think it’ll come better from you. What with the classical education and all.”

“Hah.” He butts his forehead, very softly. “Fine. Though I don’t think I’ll use your version of logic.”

He pushes off from a chuckling Isaac’s chest and strolls across to where Henry is sitting, legs no longer swinging, miserably trying to put a good face on his disappointment, fiddling with the strap of his bag, pooled on the table beside him.

“Henry.”

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Will you look at me, please?”

Henry sighs and looks up. It’s heartbreaking. Well, hopefully not. He fights to not let his own gaze slide away, can feel the strain, thinks: _can’t be harder than holding a sword to a man’s throat…_

“I’m just going to say this.”

“Okay.” That beautiful voice is horribly small, and so brave.

He takes a good breath. Marshalls his focus. “You’ve been making offers all night. All day, really. And then you’ve been letting them sit there on the table, waiting for me to pick them up. And you should know: I’m really, _really_ bad at that kind of thing. So I’ve been looking at your offers, and kind of prodding them with the occasional clumsy finger, trying to convince myself that they’re real, trying to gather more data, because why would someone like _you_ want someone like _me_–” Henry opens his mouth on a deep breath and Oliver holds his hand up. For a wonder, Henry stops, pressing his lips together in an almost comical contrition, slumping, looking up at him. “I have to just keep motoring on or I’ll lose the thread and my nerve, and tonight’s shown me that actually I have really good instincts and should just keep going. Where was I?”

“Some kind of card metaphor about offers?” suggests Henry.

“Right, so, yes, so I’ve been prodding them, and watching them kind of drift off the table sometimes, and it’s scary, but – and this is the important thing – really wanting to pick them up, and hoping, hoping, _hoping_ that they’re still there. Because… because of you; how I feel about you, Henry.”

“Wait, so… you _do_ want me?”

“Yes.”

“_Me?_”

“Yes.”

His eyes slip to the side, towards the door, then back. “Are you _sure?!_”

And it comes to him, all of a sudden, that a lot of Henry’s charm is based on trying to convince _himself_ that he’s attractive and worth people’s attention, while leaving options open so that he can _also_ convince himself that, if it doesn’t pan out, he didn’t really mean it after all, so it won’t hurt. But of course it does.

Henry feels everything just as keenly as he does. He just uses a different language to describe the world from Oliver’s, masks his vulnerability with one of openness.

And suddenly it’s simple.

“You doubt my resolve? My attraction? Okay, listen: you are one of the most gorgeous people I have ever met, and I don’t just mean this,” he gestures down the side of Henry’s abruptly reddening face, “ludicrously classical piece of architecture.” A chuff of a laugh from the door. “You’re kind, you’re witty, you know how to _actually_ care for people, and you… you draw them with you on your ridiculous flights of fancy, mostly just because you think they’ll enjoy them too and want to share.”

“Tell him about his voice,” suggests Isaac, quietly.

“Yes, his voice – ah, _God_, Henry, your voice – it’s _indescribably_ beautiful; warm and sweet and sinful. When you speak English it’s an invitation. When you speak French, it’s like being stroked head to toe. I can’t _wait_ to feel you speak in the rest of your many tongues, but _right now_ I want to feel it against mine, taste that… sweetness for myself, feel the warmth and strength of your lips and arms. Is that unequivocal enough for you?”

Henry, who’s looked increasingly as though he’s pleasantly afloat (and deliciously embarrassed) throughout this, blinks rapidly, looks puzzled, eyes scanning then looking up at Oliver. He wets his lips. “Wait: _feel_ me speak?”

“I didn’t mention that I’m synaesthetic?”

“Oh my.” He bites his lip briefly, eyes flashing. “I feel sure that I’d remember that… So many possibilities,” he murmurs. He straightens his back on a wriggle, drawing himself up; peers at him sidelong. “And you want–” he clears his throat. “You want to kiss me?”

“Yes. And– and do you want that too?”

“Hell, yes. You have to ask?”

“Yes.”

“Christ _God_, Oliver, _yes_, I– _mmfh!_”

Hands deep in the man’s hair at last, he realises that, as good as he’d allowed himself to vaguely imagine kissing Henry to be, the reality is a thousand times better – hotter, wetter, rawer, and the _sounds_ he makes, even from so little contact, the hunger in his hands, fisting the fabric of Oliver’s jacket and dragging him closer. And once the edge is off his initial shock and appetite, the sheer _skill_ comes to the fore, and Oliver hears himself moan into this sculpting caress of lips and tongue, feels the flush erupt over him, and Henry’s long, clever fingers stroking his flank under his jacket, his jaw, the side of his neck.

Over (or between) the sounds of their breathing, Henry groaning faintly as he tries his teeth lightly in his lower lip, comes Isaac shuffling, a low sound from _his_ throat reminiscent of that purring growl from earlier. Oliver breaks off gently and slowly from Henry’s mouth, pulls back to smile softly at him.

Henry makes a slightly woebegone sound, reminiscent of a puppy. His own expression broadens into something like a smirk as Henry makes shamelessly big eyes at him, hands still resting on his hip and shoulder.

“I don’t just want to stay here, kissing you for hours.”

“Why not?”

“For a start, this is _not_ a conducive spot.”

“I don’t know…” Henry’s fingers trail down the buttons of Oliver’s shirt and he gives him the wickedest smile he’s yet seen on him.

He slips a hand between the descending digits and his tingling torso and tangles their fingers together. “And what if I were to appeal to aesthetic sensibilities, raise the stakes a little further than,” he jiggles their hands, “this?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m asking you if you’re ready to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Meaning…”

“I’m asking if you’ll come to bed with me.”

Henry’s eyebrows rise. “Tonight?”

“My flat’s a mile and a half away, maybe two max. The bed is ludicrously comfortable.”

“Now?”

“If you want to, yes.”

Henry makes a show of leaning sideways to peer around him then back to centre. “What about Isaac?”

“It’s a big bed,” he replies, straight-faced.

He experiences the rich pleasure of seeing Henry somewhere between shocked and impressed. “You mean…?”

“_Yes_…”

“Isaac?” he calls, voice a little hoarse.

“Kinell, you have _no_ idea how hot the pair of you are, do ya?”

“Oh.” Seeing Henry flustered may be Oliver’s new favourite thing, and he somehow suspects that their friend is going to prove adept at supplying plenty of extra fluster.

They twist together to watch him as Isaac unprops himself from the wall, moves towards them in what, if he were forced to describe it, he’d call a prowl.

“Yeah, I want this.”

“Ohhh…”

Isaac stands next to Oliver, grins hard at Henry. “I wanna see you together, hear you together, touch you as you move together.” He sobers. “I want to lick the sweat from your neck as he makes you beg him to let you come. I want you moaning into my mouth when he does.” Henry makes the least articulate noise Oliver’s yet heard from him. “You know – just for a start. I hope you want that too, but if not – fair play. It’s not everyone’s cuppa tea. If you don’t, though, I hope it’s alright if I go home later and wank myself stupid over the notion, because, _augh_,” a fluttering roll of eyes to emphasise: “_fucking hell_.”

“Come here,” says Henry, “_please_.”

Isaac closes the distance and leans into his space. “Yes?”

“_Hell_, yes.” Henry leans up and pulls Isaac down, cupping the back of his neck with his free hand, and Oliver, watching them, feeling Henry’s fingers clench on his in a sharp spasm of lust, hearing their mounting moans as they kiss, the inescapable, wet sounds of their mouths together, feels a rush of arousal so strong he’s honestly worried he might swoon. Every sound they make brushes him with texture – not colour yet, but it’s close. The thought of what further intimacy might do to him has him wobbling until Isaac wraps an arm about his waist without even looking, and he’s never felt safer or more on edge in his life. Only this is the best kind of cliff-walking, and he wants more.

Isaac screws his eyes up, pulls back with what sounds like supreme effort. “Right,” he says, panting.

Damn. Of course.

“What?” demands Henry, in a similarly ragged state.

“There’s only one problem,” Oliver tells him, squeezing his fingers.

“_My_ work here ain’t over.”

“Fuck!”

“Not yet…”

“Haha, and also–”

“We’d better be going.”

“Oh? Ohh… _right_. Good job the cameras aren’t recording anything, eh?”

“You need to leg it, quickly as possible, before the coppers get here.”

“Minutes?” asks Oliver.

“If that. Mind, what with it having been an armed thing, they may well be dragging specials out of bed, so you might be all right. Either way, ambulance will be here soon.”

“Either way, we’ll be at the gate. Unobtrusively.”

“Hah! Either way, I’ve got your number.”

“What?”

Isaac winks. Flicks his eyebrows. “Famous, you are.”

“No.”

“Also I got your business card out your wallet.”

Narrow-eyed, he foregoes a “How?!” for a “Right.” He turns to Henry. “Let’s go. Got your bag?”

Henry rolls his eyes, slipping the strap across his chest. “Yes, Uncle Ollie.”

“Be good,” he drawls. “Good lads get treats.”

Henry blushes again. “Oh my.”

“Best show you the back way out,” says Isaac, his eyes still hot on them as Henry hops off the table. “Got your hat?” he asks, casually, turning for the door.

“I gave the cap back, remember?”

“No – _your_ hat.”

Henry frowns. “What hat?”

Isaac frowns back. “I was sure you had one.”

Oliver frowns too. Now he’s said it, he can see Henry’s hat, can tell you all about its colour, shape, disreputable clutch of feathers, and insolently curling brim, but he’s also, demonstrably, never worn a hat in Oliver’s presence.

“No hat…” says Henry, slowly.

Oliver shakes his head rapidly to clear the image of Henry lifting said hat with a comfortable grin and a wink, especially when it progresses to being the only thing he’s wearing apart from those tight trousers and, for some reason, a pair of braces. “Come on,” he says, clearing a thick throat, wondering if his mind’s falling asleep in patches and starting to dream on him.

“Maybe we could get you one,” suggests Isaac, and by the absent tone in his voice, Oliver wonders if he’s picturing something similar.

He grits his teeth, fights with the urge to adjust himself, settles for bowing Henry out before him and wriggling a little as he walks behind, putting his hand in his pocket, and other tricks he’s rarely had to use since his youth.

He harbours few illusions that the others haven’t noticed, but they don’t say anything, and are probably in similar conditions. If he’s lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like the least elegant exposition I’ve done in a long while. Heigh-ho! Can’t let it interfere with the main action, after all…
> 
> (And most of the rest of your questions will be answered in the coming chapters. Probably…! 😊)


	17. In Natura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: talk of terminal illness. (Don’t worry: it isn’t anyone you’ve met.)

Armed with Chris’s security card, Isaac dashes them through the otherwise off-limits corridors to burst out of the back into the sterile gloom of the building’s backside. He vanishes behind the swiftly slammed service door and Oliver hears his pelting footsteps fade away, hoping he gets to the front in time to greet the ambulance crew. Their job now is merely to skulk until Isaac gets out.

Everything looks different in this light – both larger and smaller, somehow, the area about as grim and utilitarian as you’d expect, combined with a looming wall separating them from the next plot of land. Without much thought, he takes Henry’s hand, and they meander from the concrete into the wooded grounds they strolled earlier at the kind of aimless snail’s pace that usually infuriates him if he’s constrained to it for the sake of politeness.

Henry’s hand tightens abruptly as he jerks. “Oo-oop!”

“You okay?”

“Hah. Yes.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing; a wee divot or something.”

“Do we need a torch?”

Henry’s head flicks towards the building and back to him. “Better not. Mostly I just need to pay attention until my eyes adjust fully.”

“Feeling distracted?”

Henry’s hand squeezes his again. “A little.”

He smiles, enjoys the feeling of it; something about being in the dark means he doesn’t have to be careful of his expressions in the same way.

Distractions. Right. “Is there an antonym for that?”

“Hmm?”

“Divot. Like – the hole it came out of.”

“Oh. Hoke. Maybe. Or holk. Or howk.” These all sound almost identical to his ear but he nods anyway. “Which, incidentally, is what we’re doing right now.”

He frowns and cocks his head.

Henry smiles. “You’ve not heard that one? Heh, probably not; don’t know if Northerners say it. _Howk aboot_. Means to loiter, essentially. Or a place where idle people loiter. Not a common use, these days.”

“You’re not _that_ old…”

“Hah.” But Henry’s grinning, so he grins back, and they continue to _howk_, heading gently towards the trees, for lack of any better goal, half an ear cocked for anything more dramatic than the steady blue flicker just discernible from the front of the building now they’ve rounded that corner.

_Ka-dink!_

He stops and looks at Henry, who looks back at him mildly, eyebrows raised. Puzzled, he looks over his shoulder, wondering if they’ve somehow triggered a reawakened alarm from the building.

_Ka-dink!_ And now he’s listening for it, a faint buzzing.

Frowning, he puts his hand to his jacket pocket.

_Ka-dink!_ Yes, it’s definitely his.

Henry nods slowly at him, then asks: “Don’t you want to check that?”

“What?”

“WhatsApp.”

“I don’t know – I’ve never heard it make that sound before. _What?_”

Henry is laughing, almost soundlessly. “No,” he manages, “Not ‘What’s up?’, I mean that’s the sound of _WhatsApp_ – a mobile texting application. You adorable muppet,” he adds.

“Muppet?” he mock-huffs in response as he scrambles his phone out of his pocket. There’s a novel notification icon. “Okay, I’ve not seen that before.”

“Do you really use your phone so little?”

“I check my email, I send texts. Sometimes I Google something…” he’s aware that his tone is defensive.

“You’re gloriously anachronistic. I bet you don’t even have Facebook.”

“It, er– it became difficult to maintain.”

Henry sobers. “Ah, I can see that. Twitter too?”

“Luckily, I never ventured into it. I actually lost count of the people who told me to stay off it after, well…” One day he might even be able to stomach the thought of going back to Leeds. _And this is your alma mater, isn’t it?_

_That’s one way of putting it…_

“Oliver…”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to check your WhatsApp message before I die of curiosity?”

“W–? Oh. Isaac.”

“Isaac?”

It _is_ Isaac. “He says Chris has been taken to the hospital. They didn’t seem too worried.”

Henry sighs deeply, hand to his chest, eyes closing for a long blink.

“And the police are here.”

“Ah. Good.”

“He’ll keep us posted.”

“Excellent. Now send him a kissy face.”

“I will not.”

“_I_ will, then.”

“You don’t have his number.”

“Want to bet?”

“And you’re not getting my phone,” he adds, on a flash of insight, angling the thing away from the grinning fool.

“Send him _something_ so he knows you got it, then.”

“He must know – surely there’d be an error message otherwise.”

“You,” drawls Henry, “are going to be a challenge.”

“And that’s clearly a turn-on for you.”

“Christ, yes.” Henry’s tone (deepening, becoming ragged at the edges) has Oliver tapping a rapid **Okay, thanks.**, then burying the phone in his pocket and his hand in Henry’s hair.

Kissing him again is no less delicious in the summer-scented dark, the full, layered length of him pressing ever closer, hands skimming his jaw, neck, shoulders, back. Kissing someone his exact same height is oddly relaxing – one less thing to think about, so he can fill his senses with his scent, his sighs, the texture of his jaw as he cups it, the clutch of his fingers in his back and sides, rippling under his jacket. And he’s just thinking how… how _nice_ this is, how different from his usual encounters, how they have some time in front of them now to explore slowly and civilly, when those rippling fingers drift upwards, a thumb skates over his nipple, and, at his gasp, is joined by a forefinger to tweak him onto a whole new level of arousal.

In return, he grips the back of Henry’s neck and plunges his tongue deep, hearing and feeling him keen and rock briefly against him.

Henry breaks off, gasping. “Fuck! _Fuck!_”

He’s panting himself, tries to swallow it. “Everything okay?” He does want to be sure, but he’s also feeling gently vengeful, and he thinks he might sound a touch sardonic.

“Fucking _hell_, Oliver. Where did you learn to kiss like _that?_”

Just as he’s assembling his thoughts, trying to work out if this is good or bad, running a historical litany of kisses and locations through his head, Henry leans in, grating: “_Do it again_,” and so he does his best to oblige.

After that, matters become a little competitive, until they’re forced to break off to breathe and laugh, and agree to be a little gentler, at least until there are softer surfaces around.

“And an appreciative audience,” adds Henry, and Oliver struggles (and fails) not to smirk under his attempted frown of reproval.

Hand-in-hand again, they wander along the margin of the trees, trying to keep them between them and the road, them and the building, just in case the police are keen to search for nearby accomplices. Not that it’s exactly fantastic cover, and Oliver suspects that being dressed as they are, sounding as they do, and holding hands will exempt them from everything but wagged fingers about trespassing or getting stuck in the grounds after hours.

“This isn’t your first time, is it?”

“Foiling a heist?”

“Well, clearly you’re a master heist-foiler…” Henry smiles. “I meant kissing a man.”

“No…” he says, sarcasm oozing into his tone.

“Fine: _we_ aren’t the first men you’ve kissed…”

“No.” He tries to keep walking, but Henry’s stopped.

“Not even going to ask me?”

Oliver suppresses his snigger to a single chuff through his nose. Unable to tell how much of an exaggeration Henry’s hurt is, he says: “Maybe I should be asking if it’s the first time you’ve kissed someone in a locked museum.”

Henry makes a wry face something like he’s trying to extract something from his teeth. “I see…” They’ve strayed towards the back of the older building, so he can see the glint in his eye as he says: “Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve kissed someone who can claim connection to royalty, but it _is_ the first time I’ve kissed someone with their own Wikipedia page who didn’t make it themself.”

The humour drops out of him. “Oh no…”

“But oh _yes…!_” He brings out his mobile and starts to thumb through screens. “Let’s see… Ah yes: the double-barrel you never cop to… Ooh, birthday! Useful!”

“Henry…”

“Your middle name is Herman? _Herman?!_”

“Don’t make me do something you’ll regret…” He reaches for his hand and Henry swerves neatly without looking up.

“Let’s see… school… Ooh, is _that_ how they spell it? You English _love_ putting soundless letters in the names of appalling old places.”

“Like Edinburgh?”

“Exactly – that’s its English name…”

“Come here.” He reaches again and Henry dances back, phone held up by his shoulder, ducking past the corner of the building towards the trees.

“Why should I?”

He follows at a purposeful stroll. “It’s… a surprise…”

“Does it involve taking my phone away?”

“It involves distracting you so much you forget you even _have_ a phone.”

Henry stops, sucks air through his teeth, teeters his head side-to-side in deliberation. “Ehh, I don’t know. How can I be sure you’re a man of your word?”

“Like that, is it?”

“Could be.”

Oliver looks to his right, in the direction of the road, lets a small smile grow on him, eyes distant.

“What?”

His gaze drifts back to him, then flicks away again, tilting his head for good measure. “Well, I imagine _they_’d have something to say about that…”

Henry falls for it, looking over his shoulder. “Who…?”

Oliver pounces, taking him by the wrist of the hand holding the phone, putting his free hand to the small of his back and pulling him in close. Henry chuckles, then moans as Oliver’s lips find his neck, kissing and sucking, heading up to the soft patch just under the hinge of his jaw. Henry nuzzles into his cheek and he brushes his lips up to his mouth, whereupon they both forget about the phone in short order.

Still kissing, Oliver steers them further into the copse, releases his wrist, and pushes Henry against the trunk of a tree. They both groan for this; Henry wriggles, then strokes his now-phoneless hand over Oliver’s shoulder and up into his hair, and the other under his jacket to clutch at his waist. Their kisses speed, then slow, turning humming, indulgent, but no less heated.

“Hmm,” he murmurs into the skin just below Henry’s ear.

“Mmh… what…?” His voice is thick and honey-sweet, and Oliver shudders lightly for the sensation of it.

“Talking of first times: I’ve kissed people with beards before, but never while I had one.”

“And?”

“I like the sound.” He rubs his jaw against Henry’s. The texture is a sound is a texture. He’s never going to be able to explain that. He imagines Henry and Isaac kissing, their beards rustling together, gasps for how that will sound and feel.

“Oh my – what was _that?_”

“Picturing you and Isaac together.”

“Memory or imagination?”

“Mmh. Both? An extension, essentially. Only this time there are fewer clothes and there’s a bed. My bed.”

“Your massive bed. I like the sound of that. Where are you?”

“Sat on the edge of the bed next to him, watching you, your face, seeing how it falls open. Your shirts are gone and you’re kissing. He grips you here,” his hand runs up to the junction of shoulder and neck, “works his lips down your throat on the other side.” He suits actions to words.

“Ahh. Ah, _God_, Oliver. _Nngh!_”

“Would you like that?”

“Christ, you have to _ask?_”

“Well, good manners are very important.”

Henry chuffs a laugh at this that turns into another moan as Oliver buries his hand in his hair to pull his head back, the better to attack his neck.

“Yes,” he gasps after a while. “Yes, I do. Would. Would like. And… um, and you?”

“Literally my idea,” he mutters into his collar. “Seriously?”

“I know. Just. Well, it’s…”

“What?” Oliver raises his head at the tone in Henry’s voice, pulls back to see as much of his expression as possible.

“I worry.”

“You…” He shakes his head briefly, eyes closing on a long blink, eyebrows going high. “You _worry_…?”

“Yes! I– Look, I know I can be a bit… full-on. I’d hate someone to feel, you know – _pressured_, or…”

Oliver’s jaw sets. “Pressured. Right.” He takes Henry’s hand and pulls it to his crotch. Henry gasps, long fingers instinctively cupping him.

“Does that,” he grits out, “feel _ambivalent_ to you?”

“Fuck, Oliver…!”

“Am I giving you the slightest hint of _reticence_,” he rolls his hips into his palm and they groan together, “in my actions…?”

Henry pulls his head down and kisses any further words from his lungs. He leaves his other hand where it’s been put.

After a stuttering, panting while, Oliver manages: “A-and, mmh, and you? Are you sure? I mean…”

For answer, Henry grips him by the arse and pulls him into his body, pushes his undeniable hardness against him. “There. Good enough?”

“Well,” he says, aiming for a considering tone. “That could be, you know, residual Isaac…”

Henry laughs so hard at this that, in trying to suppress the sound, he develops a case of hiccoughs, and they have to sit down until he’s recovered.

Both of them are on the ground, legs straight out in front of them, backs to the tree, fingers entwined. Henry’s hiccoughs have subsided, but they’re neither of them exhibiting any urgency to move or speak. Through the branches, the sky is lightening.

Oliver is drifting a little, in a pleasant haze, and wonders whether and how they should be keeping themselves awake, given their track record. He also has a nagging suspicion that Isaac will be done soon, thinks about getting up and heading down to the gate, how they’re going to manage that with the gathering presence there. He’s just rolled his head over to say approximately as much to Henry, when the other takes a deep breath, says: “Do you know how long it’s been?”

“Er, since we left? About–”

“No, since I kissed another man.”

He thinks about all the facetious answers he could make, but there’s something in Henry’s voice, his absent, upward gaze, that stops him. “No,” he answers gently, twisting his torso towards him for good measure. “How could I?”

Another deep breath. “About five years.”

“Five…” his brain turns this over slowly. “Five _years?!_ _You_’ve been,” he flails for the word, “single,” it’ll do, “for five _years?!_” He stares at him.

Henry stays looking upwards. “No. Seven months.”

As his own eyes slide away in cogitation, Oliver feels his left eyebrow tuck into a frown, then clear. “Ohh…” He looks back up at him.

“Yeah.”

Another silent while. The trees murmur.

When is the right time to talk about something like this? he wonders. Normally there would have been dates and emails and texts, surely, and they’ve talked, of course, in the various waiting times of today’s madness, but not about this.

Not about who they’ve loved.

“What was, er. Does she– er, they–”

“She died.”

“Oh, God, Henry. I’m so s–”

His other hand blindly shoots out towards him, palm down. “_Don’t say it_. Just– Just don’t say it.” The hand snatches into a loose fist.

“S– right.”

“Eight years,” says Henry, finally, sounding distant, almost dreamy, hand drifting back to his lap. “Nearly nine, actually. Longest I’ve ever– but she stuck. I stuck. We both kept saying ‘Might split up next week…’ for _years_… We weren’t monogamous – too many adventures to have, too many new things to taste, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always… Anyway, we sort of drifted into a kind of lapsed polyamory…”

“Five years ago.”

“Yes. Roughly. Anyway, it was– it wasn’t that– We. We were content. I didn’t want– well, no, I did; I still fancied people, that doesn’t go away, but… I just looked forward to coming home, being home, you know?”

He nods, then realises that Henry’s still looking into the canopy, so makes a vaguely affirmative kind of hum.

It seems to work. Henry takes another deep breath. “The cancer was really aggressive. By the time she’d taken the pain back to the GP, it was too late. We’d not long moved here. Addenbrookes is– I mean, they’re really–” He sighs. “The nurses were great, and, well, it could have been the fluffiest hospital in the world and I’d still hate it. So many _fucking_ forms,” he adds, and Oliver squeezes his hand. “I’d understand,” he adds, “if you don’t want to… I mean, I wanted you to know that– that I’m not, I mean… You’ll have got this impression of me that–”

Oliver raises their joined hands to his lips. “It’s okay,” he whispers onto his fingers.

“You don’t know that.”

“Then I’ll reserve judgement as I wait for more data, draw the graph.”

Henry smiles at this. “Apply the formula.”

“Yes – that’s my next book, didn’t I tell you? _How To Chart Your Relationships_.”

“Plural, I note.”

“The bigger the subject pool, the more accurate the data.”

Henry rolls his head over to finally face him. “You really mean that…”

“Yes, absolutely – though the publisher is making noises about–”

“Oh, hush! I meant… about… about…” he waves his free hand.

“Yes,” says Oliver. “Yes.” He takes a deep breath, lets his eyes slide. “I mean: I’m difficult. A difficult person to be with. I get lost inside my own head and overthink decisions, forget to ask and try to guess at people’s motives, don’t let other people know my own. Also: I’m a nightmare in the mornings, and I hate the sound of people eating crunchy food.”

“Like toast?”

“Like toast.”

“Hm. Do you snore?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I bet Isaac snores.”

“Like a bear.”

“Ooh, have you ever been with a bear? You know – the really big, lovely, hairy, _squishy_ guys with…” Henry’s enthusiastic reminiscences and vehement hand gestures take them through another hour, during which Oliver carefully lets Henry distract him, and uses the word “Seriously?!” so frequently it starts to lose meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In Natura_ is Latin for In Nature.
> 
> I hope none of you are surprised or dismayed at how much more touchy-feely (in various ways) this work has become. I’ve been looking forward to finishing and unleashing this particular segment for a couple of weeks!
> 
> I’m also aware how very far from passing the [Bechdel Test](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bechdel_test) this work is (an endemic problem in Musketeers fic, tbf). I may have to write some kind of lesbian pirate romp or something in the future to make up for it. You know, once I’ve made solid progress with the [War series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1137809)! Or maybe at the same time. WHO KNOWS?!
> 
> Okay, romping lesbian pirates are starting to distract me. I’ll shelve them in my Plot Bunnies folder and get on with getting our lads back home to Oliver’s massive bed, where things will become a lot more explicit.


	18. In Limine

Three anecdotes or so later (it’s difficult to tell where one leaves off and the other starts), he shuffles closer, looks at Henry intently.

“And then– Yes?”

“I’d like to kiss you again. May I?”

“Fuck, yes. You know I’ll just fill up any silence with chatter unless you– _Mmmh!_” After a long moment at a slightly awkward angle, Oliver sits back, tugging Henry’s hips, and he follows the intent elegantly, kneeling up and over to straddle his thighs, hands on his shoulders, then lowering himself slowly into his lap.

Oliver knows he’s blushing again, sees his desire reflected perfectly in Henry’s face as his fingers reflexively tighten about his hips. He pulls his feet towards him a little so that his thighs tilt and cup the man closer.

“So much heat,” murmurs Henry, who’s radiating a fearsome amount himself. He shrugs off his jacket. “Take this off?” he suggests, tugging at Oliver’s.

He struggles free of it, goes to dump it on the ground.

“Gently! This is _nice!_”

“Have you _seen_ the state of my trousers after the last few hours?”

“A good point. Now, where were we? Ah, yes…”

Henry runs a languid fingertip from the back of Oliver’s neck, around his collar to his first fastened button. Flicks it open one-handed.

“Better. Hmm.” And another. Oliver feels his abdomen tighten as a third slowly eases free and Henry’s fingers start to explore under his shirt. His eyes roll back as Henry’s mouth starts to caress his neck, which arches as he tries to give him more access.

A welter of images runs through his head; his jaw tightens and he moans.

“What is it?”

“Hmm?” he asks, somewhat wildly.

“I felt that thought shudder through you.” Oh God. That voice so warm and close, like fingertips running down his neck with each breath. “What else have you envisaged? Anything we can do here…?”

Ah yes – asking for things you want. Right.

“Hah. Hm. Ah. Right. Hnn. Well,” he pants, “I was wondering if I’d been good enough yet…”

Henry tilts his head back up to look him in the eye. He widens his own.

“Hmm?”

“Or, uh, _bad_ enough.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Ohhh… Well, as these things go, you were probably instrumental in saving a couple of lives earlier, and you nearly had me coming when you pushed me up against the tree there, so… both? Hmmmm…” A slow and wicked grin as he clearly remembers. “You want my teeth against your skin?”

“Y-yes,” he manages. “God, yes.”

“Deeply?”

He takes a couple of fast, shallow breaths. Swallows. “Yes.”

“And how do you feel about me leaving marks?”

Fuck. He feels his whole torso tighten for a moment, chokes out: “_Please_.”

“Oh.” Henry is a little breathless himself, the heat of him kicking up a notch. “Oh my. Let’s see,” and, to his surprise, he lifts Oliver’s left hand from where it’s been clasped about his arse, and runs his tongue along the length of it, from wrist to fingertips. As he slips two of his fingertips inside his mouth, he flicks at them with his tongue, eyes glued to Oliver’s. Oliver swallows, a sharp dart of pleasure, bright as panic, going through him. As Henry takes him further in, tongue working slowly around him, he starts to add a sharper edge, just a quick graze at first, a short scrape. Deeper, wetter, warmer, teeth harder at each pass until Oliver’s face and neck are one furious clench; jaw tight, eyes narrow, breath hissing from him.

Henry’s slips him free. “Let me hear it,” he tells him. “I need to hear it. Let it out.”

“But–”

“No-one cares. No-one except me. And Isaac, when he gets here. But _I_ need to hear it, Oliver – I need to _know_.”

“You– Oh. Oh, _God_.” He feels his neck muscles relax, his head loll back a little. “Yes. Yes.”

“Mmh. Let’s try that again.”

This time, as Henry plies different pressures and movements, working up and down his fingers before slipping free to attack Oliver’s thumb, then the fleshy pad at the base, then his wrist, Oliver responds vocally, trying to match sound to sensation, translating for Henry, and also himself, a two-way synaesthesia which implications have him gasping with laughter and pleasure as Henry unbuttons and pushes back his sleeve, tests his inner arm – deeper, broader, wetter – now adding suction and some harder nips that produce a kind of keening whimper he didn’t even know he was capable of making. The sting of the tiny bruises goes through him on a rush of… something he can barely define, each time stealing his breath, which the man in his lap then gifts back, laving the budding marks with his tongue so that he hums back at him, low in his throat and chest, feeling himself throbbing, hard as stone, light-headed with desire and trust. So much _fucking_ trust.

“Oh, that’s _good_,” Henry croons. “_So_ good. May I try your neck now?”

“Oh, dear God, yes. _Please_.” That’s even better, and he lets him know in no uncertain terms.

So it’s to them busily rocking, sighing, grasping, mouthing, nipping, and moaning, that Isaac walks up quietly and stands, hands on his hips.

“_Very_ nice. You gonna save any o’ that for me?”

Oliver groans, grinds up towards Henry again, gripping his arse tightly, then subsides with a sigh as Henry pulls back, twists around to face Isaac, saying: “We’ve been doing nothing _but_ – keeping an edge on one’s appetite for this long…? Do you _know_ how difficult that is?”

“Well, I certainly mean to find out how _hard_ it is.”

Even from the side, the sheer force of Henry’s grin is a sight to behold and Oliver, feeling deliciously dishevelled, wonders that Isaac doesn’t keel over at the sight of it in its full glory. He runs a hand through his hair, smiles, taps Henry on the shoulder. “Might I?”

“Oh. Sorry, yes, of course!”

Henry makes to rise and Isaac is right there, broad hand held out. He grips and turns, Oliver dropping his knees just in time to avoid being clipped by an errant boot. Then he stares at the two of them, standing ever so close to each other, both with identical smiles – incredibly soft, devastatingly intimate. He can’t tear his eyes away, keeps reminding himself that he has no need to, that this is all for him to drink in too. Then they melt into each other, arms going about waist and neck respectively, rising into a soft kiss that has him biting the back of his own wrist to stifle the sounds he wants to make. He doesn’t want to interrupt, can’t bear the thought of them breaking off, not for the world, and certainly not for him. He feels like he could grow old and die, right here, watching this, and die more happily than he’d ever imagined possible.

Then _soft_ heats a couple of degrees as Isaac reaches down, grips Henry’s arse, and pulls it to him. Henry gives a muffled cry of astonishment, and Oliver sees Isaac’s lips curl in a wicked grin, the flash of a tongue going deep, and hears both their heartfelt groans in a chord that chimes all through him.

It’s Isaac who breaks off, moving his cheek to Henry’s near shoulder, gazing at Oliver and saying: “Are you _ever_ gettin’ up?” while Henry coughs a laugh into his chest.

“Enjoying the show,” he retorts, straight-faced. “Are _you_ going to be joining _me?_”

“I recall _someone_ making free with promises of his enormous… bed,” says Henry.

“And I’m just trying to catch up,” adds Isaac. “Looks like I’ve got a fair amount of ground to cover. Wouldn’t have had _you_,” he nods to Oliver, “down as someone who’d let go so… _thoroughly_ in a public place…”

He feels himself flush, pushes himself somewhat awkwardly to his feet, leaning against the tree one-handed as Henry murmurs something in Isaac’s far ear that has the bigger man grinning broadly.

“My days!” he exclaims, delightedly. “Ohh, this I _got_ to try…” He reaches for Oliver, who stares back, narrow-eyed, arms crossed. “Not _now!_ I meant later. For a start, I wanna see if you blush like that all over…”

Oliver raises his eyebrows reprovingly, stoops to fish his phone out of his jacket pocket to type something, ostentatiously ignoring them, then puts it away, moving into the arc of Isaac’s arm, which tightens immediately, drawing the three of them together. He feels his heart pounce, quivers against them. Isaac chases his lips, draws him into a kiss that has him heating even further, and Henry cooing in his ear before kissing down his neck.

“Now,” says Isaac, after an increasingly warm while during which mouths swap blindly and fingers become bolder, “fucking amazing though this is, and much as I want to take you both to pieces right here and now, we have press gathering,” he points at the gate and Oliver feels part of himself quail at the notion, “as well as police, my knees hurt like bastards, and I seem to remember that we have to walk a coupla miles to your luxury shag pad, so let’s get on it, yeah?”

Oliver kisses him decisively, then Henry, and, before he can get caught up in their ridiculously perfect grins, disentangles himself and stoops to scoop up his jacket. “Let’s go.”

“You’ll be alright?” Trust Henry to have picked up on the media nuance.

He nods. “I’m a big lad,” he says.

“I know,” purrs Henry, stepping up behind him, putting his hands on his hips and his chin on his shoulder.

“Damn! What did I miss?!”

“Un peu de frottage, seulement,” reassures Henry, satin voice a little preoccupied as he strokes one hand up over the nape of Oliver’s neck and into his hair, drawing shivers from him.

“_Un peu_ means a little, I know that much…”

Oliver collects himself and wriggles free of Henry’s increasingly excited grip. “Let’s go, shall we?”

“Yes,” says Henry, “but more like ‘a wee bit’.”

“Did you know you get just slightly more Scottish when you get randy?”

“And a touch more Spanish,” puts in Oliver, who’d revelled earlier in the texture of some ecstatically rolled rrrs under the tree.

“Nice,” approves Isaac just as Henry says:

“Really?” with every evidence of academic interest. “I’d never noticed.”

“You _must_ have noticed,” says Oliver.

“No,” he breezes, unconvincingly. “No-one’s _ever_ mentioned it before.”

They both shrug into their jackets, and Oliver slings his arm over Henry’s shoulder. “We’ll be sure to point it out next time.”

“Wonderful! I look forward to examining your _analysis_ later.”

“Now, a wee bit of what, though?” muses Isaac behind them.

“Frotting?” ventures Henry. “Fully clothed, of course.”

“Ohh! Oh right. Makes sense it would be a French word.”

“So many of the best bed vocabulary is.”

They head towards the road.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you goin’?”

They turn to see Isaac with his hands on his hips.

“The… gate…?” ventures Henry.

“You absolute prat – why the _fuck_ would you go out front? Didn’t I _just_ say the filth are there?”

“Er, how else are we going to–?”

Isaac starts laughing.

“What?”

He chuckles, sniffs, shakes his head. “I should have fucking known.”

“What?”

“When I didn’t find you by the gate, I shoulda twigged.”

“_What?_”

“More than one way in or out of this place. Come on,” he gestures, strolling backwards towards the back of the building. “I’ll take you round the tradesman’s entrance.” With an outrageous wink, he turns on the ball of his foot and strides off. Henry nudges Oliver and they scramble to catch up.

“So,” says Henry, “can I ask?”

Oliver looks over and he’s twinkling at him.

“You can always ask,” he says.

“And probably always will,” adds Isaac.

“Haha,” says Henry. “I’m very polite, I’ll have you know.”

“Actually, that’s–” Oliver swallows, in a momentary full-body flashback to an earlier probing question. “That’s a good point.”

Henry smirks, clearly having in no way missed his momentary lapse from current reality, or failed to guess its source. “Well,” he says, voice the warmer side of neutral, but not provocatively. Not yet. “I was wondering about the synaesthesia.”

“Yes?” He wonders at the open tone of his voice, looks deeper to find it reflected in an ongoing sensation of… comfort…? Relaxation? He had it right earlier, he thinks: this is _trust_.

“I’m guessing sounds and textures, yes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s pretty unusual.”

“So I’m told.”

“Anything else?”

“Sounds and colours, depending on the sound. Touch and colour, but usually only under certain circumstances.”

“And music?”

“Yes. The more complex it is, the more… involved the rest of my senses become.”

“Do you get visuals?”

He recognises the term from a party conversation a long while ago, thinks it probably fits. “From music? Yes.”

“Bloody hell,” comes Isaac’s voice as they duck through the passage to what turns out to be the service yard, “sounds like a trip.”

“Er, yes,” he tells him. “Apparently that’s what happens.”

“So, wait, what other people spend a bunch of money on…”

“I just have to skip lunch and listen to the right kind of music, yes.”

“So it’s more intense when you’ve got low blood sugar,” muses Henry.

He nods.

“Sleep deprivation too?”

“Yes.”

“And, er, sexual arousal…?”

He turns to face Henry, stopping him in his tracks. “Absolutely.”

“Oh God…” he murmurs, reaching for Oliver’s face, drawing closer. “That must be…”

“Sometimes spectacular,” he murmurs back, against his lips, drawing him closer by the waist. Henry hums faintly. “Or really fucking irritating.”

“What makes the difference?” He sounds breathless again.

“It all,” he says, softly, “depends on the voice…”

“And the touch…”

This kiss is soft, and he’s acutely aware of the tiny sounds Henry makes, fluttering over his skin, delving deeper, until he hears a now-familiar growl of frustration from Isaac, shivering through him.

“Oh my,” says Henry. “Do that again!”

“Later,” says Isaac, firmly, a hand landing on each shoulder. “Sitting down. Lying down. Somewhere where I’ve got my boots off and a cup of tea inside me. You do have tea at yours, right?”

“I may have abandoned as much of my class as I can without major surgery,” returns Oliver, peeling slowly away from Henry, “but there is always tea.”

“Get in,” says Isaac. “And food?”

“Er…” He rolls his eyes up in an attempt to recall.

“Fuck. Right. Give us your address – I’m ordering pizza.”

Henry snickers. Then sobers. “That’s a good idea, actually.”

“_Actually_, I know.”

“In the meantime, I have a scone in my bag.”

“You do?”

“You gave it to me to look after.”

“I did?”

“Any jam?”

“No. Just sultanas.”

“That’ll do.” Isaac takes the slightly battered but still sizeable scone out of its bag and breaks it into three pieces.

“I’m fine,” says Henry instantly.

“Eat the damned scone,” growls Isaac.

Oliver chews his first mouthful slowly, finding, as he goes, how much he needs it, the weight of the thing anchoring him a little. Some of the dazzle fades from the night, but he feels better for it, more… present. He eats the second half with more relish, wishing for water.

“That’s better,” says Isaac, peering at him. “You look more here…”

Henry shoots him a chagrined look. “That he does. Sorry – I should have taken better care–”

“Of both of you. Right. We good?”

“Yes. Thank you,” he adds.

“Never pass up a safe chance to eat, sleep, or, well, any other creature comforts,” declares Isaac. He pops the rest of his own in his mouth and chews with gusto. “Lovely. Come on.” It’s slightly muffled.

Henry tries to offer Oliver his last portion. Oliver gazes at him, expressionlessly, until he gives up and eats it, slightly chagrined.

“I strongly suspect,” he murmurs, “that you’re going to prove as large a challenge.”

Henry swallows. “Indubitably.”

Ahead, Isaac is wrestling with a padlock. It comes free with a muted clang and a curse and he yanks it open enough for them to slip through, then locks it behind them.

They saunter up the road. “I had no idea this was even here,” admits Oliver.

“Never needed it, I’ll be bound.” Isaac grins. “Some posh houses down here an’ all. Anyway,” as they approach the top, “where next – left? Right?”

“Right.”

“Bugger.”

“If we go left it’ll take a lot longer to get there…” he tells Henry

“And you were going to give me your address,” Isaac reminds him.

“Oh. Right. Of course. Are there places open this time of–?”

“I can get us pizza.”

“You’re a prince,” enthuses Henry. “The bugger,” he tells Oliver, “is that I have to fetch my bike.”

He frowns a little, lop-sided, trying not to feel frustrated – it’ll be minutes at most, after all the time they’ve waited so far – but there must be something in his expression that Henry can read, even in this light.

“I’ll be no time at all – just go on without me.”

“You don’t know where I live.”

“You could tell me…?”

“Ah.” He smiles. “Maybe I want it as a surprise.”

“You’ll be waiting a fuck of a lot longer for that pizza, then,” remarks Isaac.

“True.” He looks back at Henry. “But also: I’d like to walk with you. It’s– I just–”

“The ritual of the thing,” Henry nods. “I get it. Wait here, then. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Oliver blinks. That’s not what he’d been going to say (if he’d managed to say anything, that is) but Henry is, of course, completely right.

As they reach the end of the narrow road, Henry grins and dives left down Trumpington Road, moving quickly and gracefully, as he would have predicted.

Isaac sighs and he looks up at him. His gaze is still fixed on Henry’s disappearing figure, but he smiles and says: “He’s just lovely, isn’t he?”

Somewhat bowled over, he can only say: “Are you going to tell him that?”

Isaac’s mouth turns down, then up into a grin – a happy shrug of the face. “At the right point, sure.” He looks down. “Why – should I be telling _you_ in words too?”

He feels his face warm. “Er…” His eyes skitter away.

“Christ, that’s beautiful.” Isaac’s hand cups his cheek, then his forefinger skates, unbelievably lightly, down his jaw and neck, then weaves down through the gap Henry’s left in his shirt to tease his chest. “Yeah, you’re all warm here, too.”

His fingers flatten against him, delve to the side, just below his collarbone, and he’s raising his eyes to meet his; challenging, retreating, inviting, leaning back against the low wall and the sign telling him where he nearly is, watching Isaac’s nostrils flare, feeling his waning erection stir again, wanting nothing more than this man’s weight and heat against him.

Isaac’s jaw clenches and he closes his eyes, clearly trying to master himself.

“Christ, I thought Henry was going to be the handful, but you…” he shakes his head, his eyes sliding open again, slow grin blooming.

It’s just rolling to the front of his mouth to make some remark along the lines of how he’s going to have both hands full if he’s lucky, when someone comes striding down the main road and makes a turn towards them.

“Shit.”

Isaac spins in the direction of his gaze and steps away saying, hand out towards the newcomer: “You can’t go in there, sir.”

The other man swerves towards him, flicking his hair back with a toss of his head, shoulders squaring, temper instantly high. “And who are you to– Oh! Hello!” It’s brighter in tone, but still heated.

Isaac’s head turns, just a little, and Oliver, fingers flying to his buttons, steps up to flank him without even thinking about it.

“Oh!” Isaac’s saying as Oliver, hands dropping, fights not to stare. “Sorry, yeah – you’re from the Museum, yeah.” There’s smoke everywhere. “You still can’t go in there, though.” Or maybe it’s mist.

“What? I’ve got keys and everything.” Eyebrows askew, quizzical and challenging and fucking hell, he _knows_ that look. He really does.

Isaac’s mouth quirks at this attempt at humour, but his stance stays solid. _He must be more used to this scenario_, he thinks, suddenly. He’s no longer in any kind of uniform, but he’s all of a sudden the man nodding to you, cross-armed at the doorway, or shaking his head, for that matter.

“No go. Ain’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

For answer, Isaac hooks his thumb over his shoulder at the blue strobe at the Museum entrance.

“Shit! I– No! What’s going on?!”

“Break-in. Everything’s locked down. No-one in or out until they get more important fuckers out here. Might as well go back to bed.” Isaac frowns. “Here, why _are_ you here, anyway? You’re day shift, aintcha?”

“Yeah,” he says, slowly. His gaze moves and, in doing so, finds Oliver. His head goes to one side, eyes widening.

_He thinks _I_’m familiar too!_ he realises on a cold wash of insight. Impossible, but there it is. The kid steps forward, almost unconsciously, never breaking eye contact.

“You… I–” He blinks hard then, screwing his eyes up for a moment, looking even younger than ever. He shakes his head. “Sorry – not much sleep. I know you, don’t I?”

“Er–”

The kid – Charlie, he remembers, suddenly – steps forward again, and Isaac bristles a little. “No, I do, but– But you don’t work here,” he says on a sudden, decisive rush.

“No,” he says, sounding a great deal calmer than he feels, hoping his face betrays nothing of this turmoil. “I’m just… here with him…” He gestures sideways, eyes never leaving the young man’s face.

“Come to pick me up,” says Isaac, briskly. “Crappy end to my first shift. I told ’im ’e didn’t need to, but ’ere ’e is.”

“Oh,” says Charlie. “Oh, I– Right. Sorry.”

“What for?” Isaac sounds amused.

“Um, nothing. Sorry. Charlie.” He holds his hand out. To Isaac, though his gaze keeps, not exactly sliding away to Oliver, but encompassing him, somehow.

Isaac’s grin broadens and he step-leans into the handshake. “Isaac. Yeah, never properly introduced, was we?” Their grip breaks off. He waves towards Oliver. “This is, ah, th– er–”

“Oliver,” he says, stepping in and putting his own hand forward.

“Charlie,” the other murmurs. Oliver tries for brisk, but the lad’s mouth droops open a little as though something in his touch is summoning a sensation stronger than the sight of him, and his grip lingers, even as Oliver tries, for the sake of politeness, at least, to let go after a single, swift tug.

Cold mist rolls over them. October? November? _That’s enough!_ he roars, arm hard across his heaving chest, and the lad just keeps on glaring.

He forcibly extricates his hand. Charlie stares for a moment, his eyebrows go up, then down, and he blinks hard again, then laughs awkwardly. “Sorry – must have dropped off for a second.”

Isaac’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder. “Time to go back to bed, then.”

“Um, y-yes. Only– I can’t.”

They both share a frown, then look back at him. “Can’t?” he asks.

“Oh. Um, well, Lester rang – asked me to pick something up, and, you know, it’s the boss, and… what?” They’re both shaking their heads.

Isaac squeezes his shoulder and lets go. “Told ya – _no-one_’s goin’ in. The police were pretty fucking definite on that score.”

“It’ll just take a moment. And you know what Lester’s like…”

“Why ain’t ’e ’ere ’imself?” Isaac’s tone has turned suspicious.

Charlie is all earnestness, and Oliver finds himself wondering if that face ever told a convincing lie in its life. “Oh! Well, he lives too far out, just wanted me to get everything in order for him. You know: Lester the Ready… um, as I call him, anyway…” his tone falters out of his jolliness and he’s staring at Oliver again. This time it’s because he’s the one staring, frowning hard. “What?”

“What did you say?”

“Um. Which?”

“His name.”

“Lester? My– _our_ boss: Lester Rushford. I call him Lester the Ready. You know? Like Æthelred the Unready? Because Lester always has a plan, everything just so. Or also: because when he gets vexed he goes bright red, which– well, I get to see that a lot, because… um… Are you okay?”

Can it really be that simple?

He sees the two of them striding past again, the young man in trouble, the shorter man broadcasting righteous ire, wonders what his boss has promised him for good behaviour – a way out of the grounds and into something better suiting his temperament, perhaps?

He takes a deep breath, swings around to Isaac. “The Big Cheese. Red Lester.”

“No.”

“Yes. You know what I’m saying…”

“Fuck off.”

“It makes sense.”

“I know.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “Everything. _Nearly_ everything. _Fuck_.”

“What?”

“So: you have to go back and tell them, much as I hate to say this.”

“_What?_” asks Charlie again, louder, brows twisted and eyes hardening.

A short, sharp chuff of breath out through his nose. “You,” says Isaac heavily, hand landing on Charlie’s shoulder again, “need to come along o’ me and explain a few things to the nice coppers over there while Oliver waits here and is _in no way_ mentioned as part of the coming conversation, do you understand me?”

“Ah.” Charlie’s eyes slide over to him. “Yes.” They flick back up to Isaac. “Right. Okay.” He takes a heroic breath. “Let’s go.”

He nods at Oliver, who nods back and turns to watch them go, then seats himself on the low wall, out of sight, just next to the sign he nearly managed to get himself distracted against.

Right.

Wow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Limine – Latin: at the outset/threshold
> 
> It’s also another [legal term](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Motion_in_limine): Preliminary, in law, a motion in limine is a motion that is made to the judge before or during trial, often about the admissibility of evidence believed prejudicial.
> 
> This is the chunkiest chapter I’ve posted so far: I couldn’t see a good place to chop it without throwing later stuff out (and I’ve _still_ managed to give myself an extra chapter from planned as it stands!), so to make up for waiting longer than usual, you get a longer bunch of words to wrap your brains around.


	19. In Vita, Veritas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-English phrases will have translations on hover-over and in the end notes where appropriate.

“Hello!” There’s a squeak and rattle from behind and to his left.

“Hey,” he says, not turning.

“That, I have to say, is _not_ the greeting I was expecting. Isaac ignored me as well, in favour of squiring the young gent with the lovely hair we saw earlier.”

Henry crosses his field of vision, leans his bike against the phone box, and nudges Oliver. “Budge up, then.” He slides left obediently, now with the sign to his back. “What’s going on, then?” asks Henry as he settles himself, legs crossed, leaning against his shoulder.

He tells him, in as few words as possible.

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Mm-hm.”

Henry sits and blinks rapidly for a moment. “So, let me see if I’ve got this.”

“Go on.”

“The Head of Security at the Museum hired a couple of experienced criminals to break into the Museum, ensured that security would be light – including one undertrained newbie – and gave said criminals means to rig the cameras, cut the power, and block the mobile signal, so they could search for some pamphlet he could presumably have grabbed himself at any time–”

“I suspect that people would have had a lot of questions for a member of non-research staff grabbing it.”

“Alright,” concedes Henry, “so for some unknown reason, he wants his hands on a particular bit of paper, seeks to cover that with a general robbery, maybe blaming the new temp, but the thieves overplay their hand by beating up one of the guards instead of just dodging them, and also weren’t counting on Isaac being a badass, and us: a pair of–”

“Lucky idiots who got themselves mixed up in proceedings?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I know.”

“Okay, so anyway – the thing is that you worked out it was a very particular inside job _because of a bad pun?!_”

“Pretty much.” 

“Luke did _not_ come over like much of a punner.”

“That he did not.”

“Still a very slim clue.”

“Yes, but it led me to Rushford – mysteriously not here, yet sending another hand out – which made sense of most of the rest of the symptoms, as it were.”

“And did the lad not get it?”

“Well, he didn’t know that the invisible Bad Guy had been called The Big Cheese.”

“No, I mean, _he_ made the joke himself – did he not hear ‘Red Leicester’ in that?”

“No idea. Didn’t ask.”

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes, Oliver wondering idly if he’ll ever get to know the full truth of the many mysteries tonight has shown him.

“Oh. _Oh!_” Henry taps Oliver’s thigh hard and rapidly.

“_Ow_. Yes?”

“Sorry. Yes. Er, I think Chris was in on it.”

“_Really?_”

“I don’t mean getting beaten up. Or even the robbery, necessarily. Remember how clobbering her wasn’t in the plan, according to Joe? It’s just… the timing of the blackout.”

“Ah. _Yes_. And her apologising…”

“Ohhh… Yes…”

“If that’s the case, she must have come across them unexpectedly after switching the lights off. I’d better let Isaac know.” He taps rapidly into the WhatsApp conversation, gets a response surprisingly quickly – Charlie must be doing most of the talking.

He shows the display to Henry: **Wouldn’t put it past her. Maybe a hazing thing?**

Henry nods. “Freak out the new guy: switch off the power, don’t answer the radio, knowing that the cameras are on a different system. Not knowing they’re already rigged.”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Exactly.”

“And so we wait again.”

“Yes.”

Henry pats his knee, leans back. “Hopefully he won’t take too long.”

“Well, quite. Good job we hadn’t ordered the pizza already…”

“Hmm,” he agrees, shifting away slightly. And then his head drops to Oliver’s shoulder and he finds himself grinning in the dimness. Hopefully it won’t take long at all. He closes his eyes and leans his head back on the sign, settles in to wait.

“Excuse me?”

His eyebrows go up and he blinks himself alert. “Yes?”

“Do you know what’s going on?” A young woman in a remarkably crisp suit is gazing at them from the opposite corner of the road, her expression something between curiosity and challenge.

“Not a clue,” he answers.

Her mouth quirks. “You’re lying.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “It’s a terrible habit.” His eyes drift closed again.

“So should I ask your friend?”

“Sadly, he doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“That’s okay. You can translate for me.”

He feels Henry shaking with laughter, rolls his eyes open again. She’s stepped closer, onto their pavement, completely unafraid.

“But I might lie again.”

“That’s harder to do. Unless _he_’s a liar as well…”

“There’s a difference,” he tells her, with dignity, “between _lying_ and _being_ a liar.”

“State and trait,” puts in Henry, lifting his head.

“That’s three.”

“What?” Oliver demands.

“_Three_ words of English.”

“Hélas,” says Henry, insincerely, “il n’y a plus…”

“Je ne te crois pas,” she smirks. Despite her English being strongly tinged with West Midlands, this is a virtually accentless switch.

Oliver sighs, shakes his head. “Does _everyone_ speak French in this city?”

Henry shrugs. “Peut être…” He grins. “Anyway, I’d _love_ to speak with this charmingly direct young person who has _tutoyer_ed me without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Incroyable,” murmurs Oliver, gazing at her with mock censure.

She blushes, her skin even paler than his own, turns her head sharply towards the main road, and he knows the tumble of ringlets suddenly, the choir switching from bouncy to dolorous in a moment. _O Nata Lux_, he remembers. Tallis at his most luminous. But there was– what was the piece before it?

“You do look very familiar,” says Henry. “Have we met?”

“Probably,” she says, regaining her composure, turning back towards them. “I meet a lot of people. Part of the job.”

“Ah,” says Henry, sobering a little. “Then I believe you need to be with _your_ people,” he points backwards down the road towards the lights, “over there.”

“All in good time,” she retorts. “Something tells me that you two idiots know more than you’re saying.”

Henry gasps. “Such harsh words from someone so fair! Belovèd!” His head and one hand crash into Oliver’s chest, curling in towards him. “You told me we’d be safe from such things here!”

“Alas, nowhere is safe,” he replies, drily, patting his knee absently. “We must inure ourselves to the vicissitudes of fate.”

“Oh, good word!” enthuses Henry.

“Well, I read a lot.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Uh-oh…” mutters Henry into his shirt.

“You’re Oliver Montague, aren’t you?”

“Who?” he returns, blankly.

“Ooh, no, love,” says Henry, sitting back up, “he gets this all the time. I wouldn’t mind, but he’s nothing like as rich.”

“You are an impossible gold-digger. I despair.”

“You sound like him too,” she persists.

“Maybe I’m his stunt double. For parties,” he adds.

“Must have been tough when he grew that beard…”

“Horrible.”

“Yes, it’s _such_ a bind.” adds Henry who, from the sound of things, is feeling the need for some payback for the gold-digger comment. “You see, the _real_ Oliver Montague is rubbish in social situations – frequently tongue-tied and awkward, so, er–” he points at him.

“Dennis,” he deadpans.

“Dennis? _Really?_”

He shrugs.

Henry shakes his head and continues: “So _Dennis_ here takes his place at social functions and does all the talking.”

“I see,” says their interlocutor.

“Thus winning for _dear_ Mr. Montague a specious reputation as a witty, debon– _ow!_”

Oliver raises an eyebrow and smirks, withdrawing his elbow as Henry rubs his ribs ostentatiously. The woman rolls her eyes. He wonders why she’s continuing to bother with them. Something other than their mildly amusing foolishness is preventing her from striding into the gathering and asking pugnacious questions of the professionals.

Interesting. Her eyes flick away again to the blue lights then back to the ground.

“I’m sure he’ll give you a quote if you ask nicely,” says Henry, sweetly.

“Who, him?” she points at Oliver with a disconcerting quantity of disdain.

“No, Isaac,” says the object of her despite, slightly nettled.

“Who?” she frowns.

Henry looks at him in surmise before turning back to her. “If not Isaac,” he says, slowly, “then maybe yon copper-glossed skinnymalinky…?”

“Who?” Her tone is simultaneously more heated and more distant.

“The pretty young man who’s not your boyfriend,” he tells her.

“Charlie,” says Oliver.

“Aye, him.”

“He’s not that skinny.”

“Well, you clearly copped a better eyefull than I did. Besides, ‘slendermalender’ doesn’t work quite as well.”

She stares down the road, jaw working a little. He pulls the folded programme out of his jacket pocket.

“What’ve you got there?” asks Henry.

“Programme from earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He scans through it. Points. “What does this mean?”

“_O occhi, manza mia, cigli dorati/ O faccia d’una luna stralucente._” Oliver enjoys a small frisson at the rolling consonants. “Hmm. Italian. Old, probably, given the concert’s theme, which explains the– never mind.” He points, running his fingertip along the words as he goes. “_Oh my_ – I’m guessing – _belovèd’s eyes,_ er, _golden? _Hmm._ Eyebrows? Eyelashes_. Yes, probably _O, my beloved’s eyes with golden lashes_.” He moves to the next line. “_Oh face as luminous as? _No, the stra- and this being a love song: _O visage more effulgent_ _than_ _the moon_. Or maybe: _O, the face of a brighter moon_. Shall I go on?”

“No,” he murmurs, “I think that’s enough.” He taps rapidly at his phone then puts it away, resisting the urge to look around the corner, gazing at the woman instead, waiting…

There. Her face shifts. He can hardly bear to watch its conflict as footsteps grow louder and faster towards them.

“Verity!”

“_Verity?!_” murmurs Henry, immoderately delighted. “That’s better than Dennis. Don’t you elbow me again!” he adds hurriedly, ducking his torso away.

“Charlie!” she’s flustered.

He arrives at a gallop, barely winded, reaches for her hands and she lets him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! Just–” she nods over his shoulder.

He twists his neck, then brings his head back as though he’s on a spring. “Right,” he says, eyebrows gambolling, “you’re, er, you’re covering the story.”

“Yes. Yes. I’d better–”

“Ah,” he says, very softly, “your editor w–”

“Yes.” It’s brisk, verging on brittle. “I’d best get on,” and she twists her hand free of his, nods vaguely at everyone, and strides off towards the front of the Museum.

“Now there’s a thing,” muses Isaac, who’s caught up. “She could’ve got all the info from you, Charlie-boy…”

“Well,” he says. “I mean–” He turns and blinks at them all. “I probably sh–”

“Follow your gut,” advises Isaac, tapping the article in question. “Rarely steers you wrong. Anyway,” he adds, head going up and surveying the others. “I’m pretty sure we’re done here. Until tomorrow, obviously.” He turns to Charlie, whose gaze is increasingly further down the road. “Now, you’ve got my number, yeah? Charlie?”

“Hmm? Me? Yeah. Thanks.”

“Wicked. You keep me posted, yeah? Only I might be asleep or otherwise engaged, but you’ll let me know, right?”

“Right,” he agrees. “I’ll keep my eye on her– on developments,” he corrects, rapidly. “Yes.”

“Good lad,” says Isaac, clapping him on the back with a wink for the others. “See ya!”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t turn. “Oh. Bye! Goodnight!”

“It’s nearly a good morning,” murmurs Henry, “and I plan to have one of those as well. Enjoy!” He, too, claps the young man on the back and it’s a mark of his distraction that he just nods vaguely.

“Farewell,” says Oliver, softly, and that serves to draw his head around, to an exchange of smirks from the others.

“Yes. Um, yes. See you.”

“I’ll be around,” he tells him, then walks off with an amused Isaac and a mildly possessive Henry, the former roaring with laughter when the latter has to let go of Oliver’s clutched arm in order to rush back and retrieve his bicycle.

“Smooth!”

“Piss off!”

“On the other hand,” adds Oliver, “he’s yet to forget my name, as far as I know…”

“Hah!” exults Henry.

“No, look,” says Isaac as they move up Trumpington Street, “Sorry, yeah? But I just– I have a problem wi’ names, okay? Takes me forever to learn some of ’em, and some people I just call the wrong thing and it won’t unstick.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, like, er, Chris. Keep wanting to call her George. Weirdest fucking thing.” His phone chimes and he gropes for it with obvious relief. “Charlie. Wants to know how you knew he spoke Italian.”

Henry raises an eyebrow and nudges Oliver, with a protest from his bike.

“I didn’t,” he mutters, slightly uncomfortable. “It was from the song that was being sung when I first saw them.”

“Ohhh…” says Henry.

“What’s this?”

Oliver explains. It takes them further up the road than he would have imagined, partly due to the length and speed of Isaac’s deceptively easy-looking stride, and partly due to Henry’s insistence on adding details from his own observations.

“Where now?” Isaac asks at the junction.

Oliver points. “Straight up for the best part of a mile, I think. But let’s cross here.”

“Why?” Henry’s not objecting, just… this is Henry, he’s learning. Never content with the surface.

“It’s prettier,” he tells him.

“Ah. I approve.”

“I thought you might.”

The rest of the walk is relatively uneventful, even though Henry grumbles that it’s not particularly pretty at night and he tells him to wait.

“Yeah, patience,” says Isaac. “We’re taking this opportunity–” he breaks off as a police car screams past.

“You were saying?”

“Hold up.”

There’s another one.

“Think they’ve tracked Ol’ Lester down?” suggests Henry.

“Might be nothing to do with us.”

“_Everything_’s to do with us!” he declaims in ringing tones that have Oliver glad they’re on the other side of the road from the hotel now. “This is _our night!_”

Isaac chuckles and pulls Henry to his side for a rattling, bike-protesting moment. “I reckon you’re not wrong there, actually.”

“_Actually_…” he grumbles. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“I was? Oh yeah.” He waves an expansive hand around as he picks up speed again. “Look on this as a chance to admire the beauty and serenity of Cambridge after dark.”

As Oliver laughs aloud at this, startling even himself, he wonders if he’s ever felt this light – exhausted, confused, mere hours away from acting as though imperiousness is a life-saving quality when faced with a gun – striding back to his flat with a couple of near-strangers he’s hoping to share more than fleeting gropes and kisses with.

Isaac asks for his address and their pizza preferences and orders what sounds like an extremely unlikely quantity of food.

Henry sighs when they draw alongside the Botanic Gardens. “This is what you meant by scenic – right?”

He nods. “The scent. The sounds.” Henry’s hand is tight in his again, making pushing the bike only marginally more difficult – Henry’s right arm is clearly stronger than it looks.

This latter suggestion makes Isaac guffaw. “Gets a lot of practice in, he does…”

“Haha! When was _your_ last time in company?”

“Fuckin’ ages ago, mate,” he admits breezily. “I, er,” his tone slows, sobering, “I don’t really… you know, I don’t tend to go to bed with people I ain’t known for years, actually.”

“So this _really_ isn’t like you…”

“No,” he says, gazing up at the silvery, pre-dawn sky. “It’s really not.”

They pass the rest of the Gardens in near-silence, Henry’s bike the only thing contributing to the conversation, counterpoint to the first sleepy chuckles of early birdsong.

Oliver directs them through the next turning, and they cross away from the Gardens as they do so.

“Ohhh,” says Issac. “I was right. One of them posh new builds.”

“Where?” demands Henry.

Isaac and Oliver point together and they all chuckle tiredly. “Five minutes,” says Oliver. “The next turn and then down to the right.”

“Nice view?”

“You’ll have to decide for yourself.”

Henry’s starting to look a little re-energised. “I’ve got my eye on most of the view I’ll be concerned about already.”

Oliver smiles slowly. “Very flattering.”

“I, Mr. Montague, intend to do more than _flatter_ you.”

“Really.”

“_Really_.”

“Tell me, then.” He hardly recognises his own voice. Some of it is the frayed edges of tiredness, but there’s a smokiness to the rest of it that makes his own heart beat a little harder with the promise of it.

Henry’s fingers slide up his side, and he’s wishing he’d kept the jacket off, suddenly. Before he can think, they’re wriggling along the back of his neck, stroking up into his hair, and he nearly misses his footing.

“Stroking isn’t saying.”

“Maybe I just want to move towards a position where I can feel your pulse jump when I tell you, in detail, how my mouth is going to work, very slowly, all the way down your neck, then down your torso until–”

“So this is the bullet-pointed version.”

“Just laying out the abstract.”

“Very nice.”

“The introduction is always the longest part, in my experience.”

“And I thought Isaac had the nerdiest pick-up lines.”

“Ohhh…!” Henry smirks. “You know, there’s definitely some details I’m missing about how you two moved from comrades-in-arms to, well, comrades-in-_arms_.”

“I thought you were going to go for something lewder there.”

“I’m wounded.”

“Then we’ll stitch you up,” says Isaac.

“Nice. In the meantime, we should return to me telling Oliver in detail about my plans involving his naked body and my lips, tongue and _teeth_.”

“_Hnn!_” He narrowly avoids smacking his face into the first of the trees by braking hard.

Henry snorts before he can help himself, and Oliver tries throwing a wounded look his way, which only doubles him up.

“Excuse me, sir,” says Isaac, his voice shifted. “Is this gentleman bothering you?”

“Very much so,” drawls Oliver, and finds himself marvelling as Isaac takes a single stride towards them, and bodily lifts Henry away with a small grunt.

Henry manages to squawk “My bike!” before he’s pushed back against the wall, and Oliver grabs its central bar as it tilts in his wake and wrestles it over to where Isaac is leaning the full length of his body into Henry, hands pinning his wrists, and kissing him breathless. But not, of course, silent.

They’re both of them, in short order, making sounds that border on animalistic, Henry more high-pitched than he’s heard him before, both of them panting now.

Struggling not to hurl the bike to the ground and his body into theirs, he tries clearing his throat. To no avail.

“Henry? Isaac?” Nothing. “Gentleman? I believe there’s food that might not find us if we don’t get moving…”

Are they slowing? It’s difficult to tell in this light, the further shade of the wall.

He props the bike against it and walks past them, tossing: “Well, you have my phone number. I’ll see you later,” over his shoulder.

A sound of protest from Henry and Isaac peels off him, grinning.

“I dunno about you, but I’m ready for pizza.”

“_Pizza?!_ I’m losing my touch,” mourns Henry.

“You’re really not,” they approximately chorus, and he grins back at them.

“Delicious,” he sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Note On The Coming* Chapter
> 
> Chapter 20 is going to be more explicit than anything touched* upon so far. I’ll do my best to ensure that you don’t miss out on too much plot if you skip it, and I won’t be offended if you do.
> 
> (*Ahem)
> 
> #### Translations
> 
> ##### Latin
> 
> In Vita, Veritas either means The Truth in Life or In Life, Truth or In Real Life, The Truth depending on your translation… The classically-inclined among you will note that I’ve ripped off the more famous phrase [In Vino Veritas (In Wine, Truth)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_vino_veritas)
> 
> O Nata Lux = depending on your translation: “O One Born of Light” or “O Daughter of Light”
> 
> ##### French
> 
> “Hélas,” = Alas
> 
> “il n’y a plus…” = there are no more
> 
> “Je ne te crois pas.” = I do not believe you. (using the singular, informal ‘you’ here)
> 
> “Peut être…” = Maybe…
> 
> Tutoyer = to call someone by the singular, informal ‘you’ (it’s considered polite, though possibly a little old-fashioned, to ask if you may first…)
> 
> “Incroyable,” = Incredible


	20. Interconnected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations on hover-over and in the end notes. Anything bounded by « » is a direct translation.
> 
> Content Notes: explicit sexual content; discussion of risks associated with sexual activity; brief mention of blood play (there’s none in the action); let me know if I need to add more.

“So you were right about that,” says Isaac to Oliver.

“Obviously.”

“Does that mean he’s right about some of _your_ preferences?”

“Wait a moment,” says Henry, rattling in their wake. “First of all: _obviously_ I’m right. Secondly: how did _you_ know that, um…”

“You like being manhandled?” he drawls. “Fairly obvious.”

“Okay, but how did _he_ know?”

“Again, obviously: I told him.”

Isaac waggles his phone at him.

“We’ve introduced him to WhatsApp,” says Henry with a heavy fatalism, as they turn the corner. “We only have ourselves to blame.”

The others chuckle.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I like to think that I applied more scientific rigour to reaching _my_ conclusion.”

“What: asking me?” Oliver points them around another corner.

“I was thinking more of the methodology applied thereafter.”

Isaac shakes his head. “If that means what I think it means, I _really_ want to see this.”

Henry enters into a spirited retelling that has Oliver wordlessly directing them the rest of the way, thankful for the rising light on one hand making walking while distracted less of an issue, but increasingly incapable of hiding his reactions on the other.

In the event, they are wrangling Henry’s bike into a suitable corner of the entrance hall when the food arrives. Isaac exchanges extravagant hugs and backslaps for a large bag of enticing smells.

Isaac smiles and waves him away as Henry says “Was that Mikey?”

“Nah, that weren’t Sticks. He’d’ve been gettin’ a talkin’-to. You’d’ve noticed.”

“Why were you so angry with him?”

He sighs heavily. Scratches his eye and hefts the bag, shifting his weight. “I thought he’d sold me to Luke and Joe.”

“Ohhh…”

“Yeah. First off thought he was trying to bring me in on a job. Turns out the stupid fucker was trying to warn me about _this_ one. I’m not saying he ain’t sold me in the first place, but that’s another conversation to be had when I’m the other side of some sleep and some food.”

“In that order?”

“That ain’t the complete list for a start.”

“Hmm. I’ve got to admire a man who gets the snacks in for an orgy.”

“Is three an orgy, though?”

“And I thought _you_ were the snack,” says Oliver. The others hoot and hiss. “Stairs or lift?”

“How far up?”

“Top floor.”

“Hah. Naturally it’s the penthouse!”

Stone-faced he repeats: “Stairs or lift?”

“Normally I’d say stairs–” starts Henry.

“– but fuck that,” concludes Isaac.

Mouth quirking, Oliver leads them there, and they file in, immediately awkward. Henry, of course, breaks the silence as the lift surges up: “So, er, what will you do about work?”

“I ain’t on – assuming I’ve still got a job, obviously – ’til the evening, though I expect I’ll be having some serious conversations during the day.”

“How about you, Henry?”

“Well, I’ve one meeting, but it’s not until the afternoon. You?”

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Fuck it: I’ll work from home tomorrow. It’s not like anyone else is in the department at the moment…”

“Tomorrow?”

He looks at his watch and groans. “Today. It’s possible I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“_You’re_ getting too old?!” demands Henry.

“Yeah, if silver chops here ain’t too old, then…”

“Watch it, sunshine!”

The lift sways to a stop and the doors open on his floor. He finds his system thumping in trepidation immediately. He can hear Henry needling Isaac about his name, asking if he’s forgotten it yet, but it’s blurring out. There is such a sudden clamour in his head, comprising all the things that could go wrong, now they’re so close, that he is utterly taken by surprise when a pair of hands gently swivels him as he stops, shoulders hunched as he fishes his key out in front of his door, and presses him back into the wall next to it.

Henry’s kisses are soft but insistent, heating fast, and his own hands fall nervelessly to his sides as Henry’s grip him. Soon enough, the other man’s mouth is buried under his collar, and Oliver flails his key towards the door in a vague attempt to get them through it on the off-chance that any of his neighbours fancy a very early morning jog/ are disturbed by the sounds he’s fighting not to make, and Henry is making no attempt to resist.

Isaac plucks the key off him with a soft chuckle and he hears the door open. He tries pushing at Henry, who merely bundles him through by rolling him along the wall until they stagger in short spirals through the entrance.

“Kitchen?” asks Isaac, voice rich with amusement, and Oliver manages to halt the spirals and crack an eye open long enough to point. “Gotcha.”

He finds them again shortly, just as Henry is pushing Oliver towards the sofa, working his hands under his jacket, and Oliver is trying to work out a) how long merely planting his feet will work, and b) whether he should just give in and plummet over the arm, taking Henry with him.

“Oi! You two! Food’s up!”

Oliver gives up on civilised methods and pinches Henry’s waist sharply.

“_Ow!_”

“Come on.”

“Really?”

“_Yes_.” He dumps his jacket the rest of the way off onto the sofa and tugs Henry into the kitchen.

Isaac has laid out three glasses of water and three plates, various takeout containers piled high in the middle of the table. The kettle is in the last throes of boiling, and he has a mug lined up for himself.

He points at the table. “At least one slice of something each, right?”

“Yes, Isaac,” sighs Henry.

“Milk?”

“Fridge.” Oliver points and Isaac laughs.

“Course it don’t look like a fridge. What the fuck was I thinking?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t design the place.” He fends off Henry long enough to sit in his usual place and starts opening packages, startled to find how hungry he is, just from the smell of the food.

“Don’t eat too much,” warns Henry. “You don’t want indigestion.”

“Don’t _you_ eat too little,” warns Isaac, pointing a teaspoon at him in remonstrance. “We don’t want you fainting.”

Henry makes a “Pffft” sound, but pulls out the stool opposite Oliver’s and perches anyway.

He turns back to the counter, starts pouring hot water. “Do as you’re told, Harry.”

“See? That’s not my name!”

“You went to Hogwarts, dintcha?” Snickers.

“You cheeky ba– _fine_, yes, Scottish boarding school, never heard that one before, haha, but I don’t wear glasses.”

“Vanity?” suggests Oliver, looking up from loading his plate at random, returning Henry’s glare with a soft smirk.

“Maybe not,” says Isaac, “but you do have a–” he twists his upper body towards them, finger waggling at his own forehead jovially, peers at Henry, then frowns, looking confounded. “Oh, my mistake.”

“Yes, well,” says Henry, looking more puzzled than cross.

A pause as Isaac fusses with his mug.

“Tea?” he offers.

“No thanks.” Oliver generally only drinks tea in the afternoons and coffee in the mornings, and is feeling very confused about what this is, but figures that caffeine is probably not the answer.

“You?” Isaac asks Henry.

“What have you got?” Everyone looks expectantly at Oliver, who says: “Tea…?” When they continue to stare: “Breakfast or Earl Grey.”

“The herbal infusion revolution passed you by.”

“It’s not really…” he waves his hand, then covers his awkwardness by taking a large bite of what turns out to be a slice of pizza studded with ham, olives, and mushrooms, which he has to fight not to just inhale, mindful of said indigestion.

“You’d have thought, with your sensory…” Henry flails, visibly searching for the word. Oliver, munching, braces for _issues_, until he clicks his way into “enhancement,” and he startles, “you’d be all over those kinds of scents.”

He frowns. He is once again up against the way language falls down, designed, as it is, for common experience. He clears his mouth, settling for: “It’s not quite that simple.”

“_Eat_,” says Isaac, mock-glaring (but only partially mock) at Henry, who settles meekly onto his stool and buries those fine teeth in some garlic baguette smothered in cheese.

“You’d better be eating some of this as well,” he returns. “Otherwise it’ll all be a bit garlicky for you.”

Isaac holds his gaze and reaches out some of the same pizza that Oliver is trying to eat in a civilised manner, and proceeds to lean back on the counter and consume the food in a way that should either be illegal or used in advertising.

Henry clearly agrees. “You,” he says, faintly, clears his throat, “could clearly, hmm.” He tries again: “They should have you on their website. In gif form.”

“No website,” says Isaac. “Just food.”

Oliver decides that he doesn’t care enough to pursue this particular mystery, and opens the next container to find salad. He stares at Isaac, who is still slowly licking melted cheese off his lips, and decides not to pursue this either, grabbing a handful and adding it to the rest of his slice of pizza.

“Efficient,” approves Isaac.

He shrugs, bites, chews, swallows, downs some water, and realises that Isaac is some kind of genius as he feels himself settling more into his body and, on doing so, realises quite how aroused he actually is.

“Fuck,” he breathes, unable to rip his eyes from Henry, who is sucking garlic butter off his thumb with every sign of relish. It’s not a performance, he sees – just a very present, very _carnal_ enjoyment of tongue and thumb and butter, and Oliver has to grip the table to prevent himself launching over it before he’s finished his mandated slice.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Isaac wiping his hands on a paper napkin. He pushes off from the counter and slides over behind Oliver, putting his hands on his hips and leaning in to whisper against his ear: “Finish your food.”

“Make me,” he murmurs, gets a ghost of a nip to his neck for that. Ahead, Henry picks out another slice of oozing baguette and starts to eat it with small sounds of enjoyment.

“Fuck,” mutters Isaac, “yeah, fair play.”

“So–”

“You still have to finish.”

He tries to growl back, but he either doesn’t have the right kind of throat, or insufficient practice, or the cheese makes it problematic, so it comes out as a kind of ragged hum, but Isaac’s voice is deepening, saying, “Alright – one more mouthful,” and he can do that – slow and careful, curving back into his heat as Isaac strokes a hand up roughly through the back of his hair, shivers cascading down him, watching Henry, who has now caught sight of them properly and has garlic butter from his forgotten slice dripping down his skin. And Oliver’s chasing down the pizza with water, wiping his hands, reaching back for Isaac, who does growl, and now he’s prickling with arousal and greedy for closer contact, Isaac hauling him back off his stool, Henry standing in a rush, stalking around the table. He grabs Henry’s wrist, brings it to his mouth to lick the butter from it – long, sure strokes of his tongue up and along the curve of his palm, feeling Isaac swell behind him, pushing back into him, seeing Henry’s eyes darken, just like in the most tawdry fiction, seeing them fix on Isaac (sharpshooter eyes, he’s thinking, marksman’s eyes), feeling and hearing them lunge into a kiss over his shoulder as he cleans Henry up thoroughly, lingering over his fingertips, both of them hot and hard against him.

“Bedroom?” murmurs Henry, laying slow kisses into his neck.

“This way,” and he’s pulling him by the wrist, Isaac by the waistband, all of them racing and laughing together, him slamming the door open, side lights on, them pushing and pulling each other in a tangle towards the bed, hands everywhere, permitted now. He’s _allowed_. Allowed to tear Henry’s jacket off and hurl it, undo the buttons of his waistcoat, grip him one-handed by the jaw, slide his other hand down and around to grab his arse, pull him closer, grind fully clothed against him, hear him moan, feel Isaac hard against his own arse, those quick fingers darting around to continue the process of undoing his shirt, and Henry’s too, featherlight and as deft as if he’d done this before, they’d all done this a hundred times before.

He helps Isaac push Henry’s shirt and waistcoat off his shoulders, pin his arms for a minute or so as they kiss his mouth, neck, shoulders, chest, until he’s writhing and they can no longer resist touching him with their hands, running their fingers over the olive skin and through the dark, salted hair. And somehow, shortly after this, unspoken, it’s Isaac’s turn to be worshipfully uncovered, littered with kisses and gasps as they reveal a frankly magnificent torso that has them both leaning to lick and kiss at dark nipples, thrill to feel him shiver and moan at the sensation, cupping their heads. Henry kisses his way down his ribs on one side as Oliver strokes upwards over spare whorls of dense hair and hard, walnut curves of muscle with hands and tongue until he meets Isaac’s, hot and insistent.

He gets his hand on the man’s belt buckle but suddenly he’s the one being seized and turned between them, open shirt pulled out of his trousers and kissed off, neck and chest peppered with nips and licks and the occasional harder bite until he feels like he can barely breathe. He kicks his shoes off with a curse and the others laugh, have to sit on the edge of the bed to attend to their boots.

He welcomes this opportunity to take a few deeper breaths, sits next to Isaac to get his socks off while he’s still got some chance of dignity, drops them when Henry moans and he looks over, hot and cold chasing each other when he realises he’s looking at the image he regaled Henry with before – his face dropping open, head lolling in ecstasy as Isaac grips him one-handed by the shoulder, kisses down his neck on the other side. In the kindness of the golden side lights they are artwork, suddenly, glittering with intent and arousal, so gorgeously focused on their shared pleasure he wonders how they can bear it.

His hand finds his own cock, squeezes and strokes through his trousers, moan coming through gritted teeth, Henry’s eyes opening into something hooded, as if even that much light is too much, mouth sliding into a slow grin, even as he gasps now Isaac is lower, keening as his mouth skates past his necklace, finds his nipple, and clearly does something wonderful with it.

“Come here,” he grates, beckoning loosely.

Oliver stands in a trance and moves over to him, buries his hand in that wild hair and closes his fist in it, gently but firmly.

Henry’s head goes back again, face flushed and unbearably open. His hand goes to his own chest as he says “Christ have mercy,” and Oliver looks down reflexively to see the crucifix, the plain gold ring threaded behind it, and he’s almost overwhelmed with emotion, drowning in it before Henry’s palm, hot even through the fabric, slides up his inner thigh and then over his balls, the heel of his hand pressing a little firmer as it reaches his shaft and he’s groaning, arching into the contact, pure arousal filling him so fast there’s almost no room for anything else.

Isaac looks around at this, eyes lighting, shifting up to kiss over Oliver’s belly, dip a sly tongue-tip along his waistband. Oliver curls his toes into the carpet, grips Isaac’s shoulder, and grits his teeth, and this only serves to make the man grin, wicked eyes glittering up through his lashes as he reaches to Oliver’s buckle.

Oliver bites his lip, knowing he wants this badly, this next step beckoning, doesn’t know which he feels stronger: guilty frustration or a weird kind of relief when Henry clears his throat and says: “Um, we should…”

“What?” His own voice is ragged as hell. He clears his throat. It doesn’t help: it sounds like he’s been shouting over loud music for three days. “Henry? What is it?”

“Er, we need to – _very quickly!_” he holds his hands up, conciliatory, “have a conversation about, er, boundaries. And safety. Sorry,” he adds, then frowns. “Actually, no – not sorry. Just frustrated I didn’t think of this sooner.”

Isaac is frowning, but he sighs and draws away from Oliver, who grits his teeth, managing: “That’s–” A short cycle of breath. “That’s very sensible. Thank you, Henry.”

“Yes. Um. Good. So: what do you want?”

He feels his eyebrows go up.

“Or not want. Um. What are you prepared for?”

Isaac laughs – a sharp bark, but his grin is good natured. “So, basically: do we have condoms, and who wants what in which bit?”

Henry looks like a man where reproval is battling a desire to snigger. “Yes. Basically. Um. I have condoms. Well. Probably two, anyway. But, er…”

“But no lube, as established,” sighs Oliver, drawing away himself, resettling his weight. “I don’t have anything, but I also know that I’m clean.” They stare at him. He sighs again. “I had a, er, an unwise encounter just before I moved here last year. I got tested – for _everything_ – and haven’t, well… There’s been no-one else since.”

“Similarly,” says Henry, “there’s been no risk since I was last tested. And clean,” he adds hurriedly.

They both look at Isaac. He shakes his head. “I’ve not been tested since my teens? twenties? but clear then and also: pretty fucking careful. I, er, when you hang around with users, you don’t fuck about with safety. I haven’t for ages!” he adds, hurriedly, face drawn tight, hands waving. “They’re out of my fucking life, but, yeah – still a good habit.”

There’s a brief silence.

“Do you trust us?” asks Henry, at last.

“Yeah. Fuck knows why. I would _literally_ trust you with my life.”

“Same,” Oliver replies. His hand goes out reflexively, palm down, and Isaac puts his on top.

“Same,” says Henry, adding his own.

The moment is very still, everyone breathing very quietly, until a particularly loud crackle of bird call outside startles them, and their hands gravitate to shoulders and hips.

“So,” says Henry, “that sounds like hands and mouths, yes? Unless…” he looks up at Oliver, awkwardly hopeful. “What have you got in your kitchen?”

“Congealing pizza, and apparently salad,” he says, as drily as he dares. Isaac sniggers.

“I meant–”

“I know, and the only oil in there is chilli oil, and no-one’s putting my margarine up their arse.”

Isaac, who’s been holding in his hilarity with increasing difficulty, explodes at this last part and Henry, rolling his eyes, joins him.

Isaac finally stops, sniffing and wiping his eyes. “Ohhh! I don’t think I’m _ever_ gonna forget you saying that. Wicked.” He props himself back on his hands, sighing happily. “Anythin’ else?”

“Okay,” says Henry, still smiling, “is there anything in particular you _want?_”

“Well, I already told you that in the office.” Henry blushes. “But apart from _that_, nothing special, no. Not here and now. Not like _him_,” and he points up, snapping his teeth shut with a wicked grin. “You?”

“No,” breathes Henry, clearly regaining some of his momentum again. “Oh. Actually. One thing.” He looks up. “Um. May I play with your senses?” Oliver blinks at this. “The synaesthesia. Sounds and touches – all very soft, I promise.”

“I– I trust you.” Henry waits. “Yes. Okay.” He nods for good measure.

Henry grins. “Thank you. Anything else? Anything, um, you _don’t_ want?”

“Just don’t bite my, er, I mean I don’t like it _that_ much.”

“And no bloodplay, I take it?” Very matter-of-fact – neither seeking nor condemning.

He likes to consider himself experienced, fairly worldly-wise when it comes to sex and pleasure, but some preferences still have the power to throw him, it would appear. “No,” he manages, blinking hard, trying to focus on regaining the warmth that’s still waiting for him.

“Noted,” says Isaac briskly. “Now, I think we were about here…” and he leans in, puts his hands to Oliver’s buckle, and starts to kiss his belly again.

It takes a handful of seconds to put him back under, it turns out. There’s so much promise in that plush mouth, the light scratch of his beard, the slow purr of leather against metal, and Henry kissing his way up from his waist to stand, kiss his mouth, biting his lower lip and humming into it. He feels the belt tighten briefly, gasps, is released, and shudders as Isaac pulls the belt away entirely then starts on his fly. Henry’s hand finds a nipple, starts to pull and roll, and he’s swelling again against his underwear as his trousers drop to the floor and, _fuck_, moist heat follows the curve of him as Isaac gently mouths along his clothed cock, breathing onto it, and he’s gripping his shoulder again with his left hand, Henry’s arse with his right, tongue plunging deeper into the man’s mouth, drinking in his moans.

“Oliver?” Isaac’s moved to kissing his belly again, then laying a pattern of nips along the skin at this last line of fabric. He looks down to see him looking up.

“Fuck, yes. Please.” Doesn’t care that he’s the first to be exposed. Doesn’t matter. Fuck. Yes.

It’s the careful unpeeling that tells Oliver so much about the kind of lover Isaac is, his experience, his temperament. His mouth follows the fabric as he pulls it down and Oliver’s own jaw drops as his head goes back and he groans for the sensation – the tongue lapping down and around him, the hands smoothing his underwear down to the floor.

Henry’s arm steadies his back as, telling by the brush of his hair against him, he looks down and mutters “Oh, dear God. _Fuck_.”

Isaac’s mouth hums back up his now-wet flesh and… pauses.

He looks down again. Their eyes meet. And, at his tiny nod, they all groan together as Isaac slides him into his mouth.

Now he’s clawing at Henry, twisting to kiss him brutally hard, frantic with pleasure and the need to hold on as Isaac takes him in, lets him out, tongue lapping, mouth gorgeously wet and so hot as he takes him deeper and deeper. If he watches any longer, in short, he’ll just come within a handful of strokes, and he’s determined to make the most of this. Just in case–

Henry’s buckle is a distraction against his side and he starts to fumble at it. “Take it off. _Off!_” he’s muttering wildly.

Isaac chuckles against him and moves down to kiss his balls as he and Henry do their best to strip off those ludicrous trousers without losing contact. In the end, sniggering, they all three pull and peel at tight trousers and underwear alike until he’s kicking out of the tangle.

Oliver feels the smile slide off him into awe. “God, you’re gorgeous.” He is. Slender, but surprisingly well-muscled, all lean lengths and dark hair springing in the same kind of wild profusion as on his head. He pulls him close, one hand going up to his head, the other down to his arse, as it already has so many times in the last few hours, but this time his erection is pushing against his naked belly, his cock a hot, hard length against his own.

“Jesus,” groans Isaac, and there’s a clank as he clearly can’t wait for them to undress him.

“Oh no!” exclaims Henry, reaching for him. “You’re not robbing us of your disrobing. Stand up!”

He does, hands still busy, and they dive in, unzipping and unbuttoning between them, the loose trousers dropping immediately, these muscles no less impressive. Where Henry is built for speed, Isaac is an immovable force – solid and smooth as marble. Oliver feels his mouth go dry at the sight of him, hard in tight, dark underwear.

“May I?” he asks, pointing.

“Go ahead,” he answers as Henry says:

“I’d like to help.”

Isaac hooks his hands around the back of his own neck, grinning. “You could toss each other for it…?”

“One side each?” suggests Oliver, and Henry nods, licking his lips, Isaac groaning as they sink to their knees in front of him and, hand on a hip each, peel him free carefully.

“Jesus,” breathes Henry, as his swollen length springs out between them while he wriggles and steps free of the fabric. He eyes Oliver. “One side each?”

Oliver feels himself grow lightheaded when he twigs, then nods and leans in, hearing and feeling Isaac groan as they, starting from the root of his shaft, lick and mouth each side until they reach the head where they kiss across him and Isaac makes a sound like someone losing his mind.

For a long while it’s all he knows – the silky salt of him, the invading musk that feels like a drug, Henry’s tongue swiping and writhing against and around his own, the judder of Isaac’s hips as he rocks and tries not to, Henry’s encouraging moans, and his own. There’s the fingers clutching at his scalp, Isaac giving in and rocking properly between them for three hard thrusts, the power of which make him dizzy, and then he’s being hauled up, Isaac’s tongue going deep, and he feels the tip of Henry’s trace along the length of him, looks down, and sees him licking between both their cocks at the same time, eyes closed in reverence, feels his knees give way briefly.

“Same here,” groans Isaac. “I gotta lie down before I fall down.” He flumps to the bed with a sideways grin, pulls himself back, swimming over the covers to recline along the far edge, patting the bed beside him. “Come up here. I want to watch you two for a bit. That okay?”

“You like to watch,” says Henry as he stands.

“Yeah. And I told you that before, remember? Now get up here.”

Henry grins. “Yes, sir!” and he bends to pull the light duvet back, Isaac helping him strip the thing entirely, gives Oliver a little push, encouraging him further up the bed so that he’s lying on his back down the middle, Henry crawling up between his legs.

“Uh, why–?” he manages.

Henry tucks his hair behind his ears, looking serious again. “Because this is what _I_ want, and have done for a long time.”

He could protest that less than a day is hardly a long time, but he also knows exactly what Henry means, so catches his eye and nods. Henry’s face softens for an aching moment, then turns frankly feral as he bends to take Oliver in his mouth for the first time.

He is instantly aflame, grunting and groaning with the pleasure of each pass between his lips, feeling the world slip, drifting and incredibly present in one breath.

“Hhah. Aah. Ahh!” He’s already beyond words, everything narrowing (cock; mouth; the moans around him, through him, from him; his legs trembling) and expanding (the way the light outside the window hangs in suspension; the sounds of daybreak; the turning over of the world). That shimmering, shivering click of retranslation goes through him again and he’s looking down, and it’s still this man, this friend, this _brother_ plunging around him, that generous, wicked mouth drawing him deeper, higher, further; the lithe, olive muscles; the wild hair. And the light is the same – daybreak after a long fight, with them alive on the other side – but the curtains are nondescript swags of dusty fabric; the sounds outside are cart-rumble and horse-clatter; the bed beneath him sways and rustles, the sheets coarse beneath his back and crumpling in his fist, emanating scents of wool and straw tick and old sweat. The man working so elegantly between his legs has scars he knows as well as his own – forehead, shoulders, thigh, just below his ribs at the back, chest and flank peppered with pocks from small shot and shrapnel. His fingers are long and clever, but calloused, powder-burned, and there’s a power in his wrists you don’t get from cycling around a flat town.

But it’s him, it’s him, and the only thing missing… He looks over to his left at a new rustle, hears his raw voice croak “Come here,” and oh, there’s power there too, command woven into each strand, forgotten as his other lover shuffles, grinning, into touching range, hand slow and indulgent on his own cock.

“Want to do more than watch?”

The grin becomes blinding, eyes and dimples twinkling, creasing that dark, distinctive scar that crosses brow and cheek, echoing the others, old and new, that litter his magnificent body, rich with bruises and fresh marks of fingernails, hair and moustaches longer, more elaborately curled. “Always.”

Soon that heat, familiar-strange, is propped along his left side, scent billowing around him, as they kiss, fierce and tender; undulating together; hot, strong fingers running down his side, then along his jaw; and he fades back, slips into Oliver, Isaac’s arms around him, cock hard against his side, Henry sucking him down so hard that he arches against the hands on his hips, panting and moaning, “_Ah! God!_”

“Beautiful,” murmurs Isaac, over and over, tracing the taut lines of his throat as he strains, breathless. “So fucking beautiful.”

Oliver summons determination, tackling the trance state, and heaves his nerveless arm up and over, wrapping his hand around Isaac’s cock, feeling him gasp, body stuttering against him, cursing so loudly that Henry pauses in his ministrations, looks up, chuckles, before returning his attention to Oliver, adding fingers now to ripple over his balls, lifting and licking them before plunging to take him deep and slow again.

Oliver begins to stroke Isaac, following the steady rhythm that Henry’s set up on him, and Isaac grinds his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Oliver kisses him, leans in and pushes under his jaw to put his lips on his right ear, the one he knows he favours (though whether that’s to do with a particularly badly-aligned set of speakers or a very close explosion at Île-de-Ré, he’d be pushed to say right now), murmuring “Just let go, we’ve got you.”

“But–”

“Do you want me to make that an order?” Where the hell has _that_ come from?!

A breathless chuff of laughter. “Save that one for _him_, I would. Anyway, why aren’t _you_ letting go?”

“I–”

“He’s set on having you come in his mouth.” Oliver whimpers, feels himself grow a crucial step harder. “Can you, _mmh_, come again later?”

Christ, he’s _already_ tired. “I– I don’t know. Can,” he swallows, “can you?”

“Probably, _ohh, oh fuckthatsgood_, if I come, come now; can’t… hold out… much longer…”

“Right. Right. _Fuck! Rrngh!_ We can’t, _mmh_, fall asleep on him, though.”

“No. Mmh. No. No.” Oliver feels him start to push and push into his grip, grins, kisses his jaw. “What’s the, uh, the plan?”

“Both of us… together?” He sees it in his head, clenches his teeth.

“How?”

Henry chooses this moment to take him down the furthest he’s done so far, reaching his tongue down even further to stroke, and thought shuts down entirely for a moment as his whole body seizes, a hairsbreadth from climax.

As Henry withdraws to breathe, he sags, sighs, and Isaac pokes his side. “Go on?”

“Oh God. Yes. Together. Us. Pinning him? T-teasing him?”

“Christ – he’d, _nnh_, love that. _Auh!_” He feels him swell even further between his fingers, speeds up, kissing his way back to his mouth.

“Come on,” and this is pitched for Henry as well, who takes him into his mouth again.

“Yes.” Louder. “I can’t last.” Henry groans around his cock.

He tightens his grip, kisses him deeply, then feels Henry move off him altogether, diving with a yelp to take Isaac in his mouth, following the pace of Oliver’s fist, lapping, moaning; he can feel him writhing against the bed, hardness brushing his leg. Isaac buries his hand in his hair and he makes the filthiest muffled sound Oliver thinks he’s ever heard.

“Yes! God! _Fuck!_” Isaac’s whole body stiffens and Oliver tightens his grip just that touch more, tells him:

“Show us,” and he does as Henry moans loudly around him, writhing and bucking, eyes rolling so only the whites of them show as he abandons himself, slowing in a series of achingly beautiful shudders even as they continue their ministrations, gentling him through it.

Oliver is never able to satisfactorily explain the next part (to himself, that is – neither of the others ask), because instead of kissing what remains of Isaac’s come from Henry’s mouth as he’d vaguely envisaged, he asks the man gasping as he descends from orgasm: “What’s his name?”

“Hhhuh?”

“Your brother here – _what’s his name?_” winding that cord of command back into his voice, sending it out to haul compulsion.

“Ah–” gasps Isaac. “A– A-Ara. Armis.” He pants, face screwed tight. “_Aramis_.”

Henry rears off them, hovers, held on stiff arms, and Oliver can’t tell: first he looks blank with shock, then in a towering rage, then as if he’s about to cry, and all in the passing of a handful of seconds.

“Wh–” he starts. “How–” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” he tells him. “I–”

“No. No, you d– Christ, brother, _kiss_ the man.”

“Of course.” He wraps Isaac in his arms, kisses him as gently as he can, stroking his head, shoulder, upper arm, until Isaac reaches out blindly and pulls Henry into them with an _oouff_. Then it’s soft lips swapping, dabbed noses, sweet smiles, kind hands, and murmuring, nonsense sounds, until Oliver catches the taste of Isaac in Henry’s mouth and delves a little deeper, chasing it, pulling moans from Henry, who rolls more fully onto him with a decisive kind of noise and a series of deep kisses that have them both gasping before moving onto his cheek, neck, collarbone, adding a trail of tongue, then a hint of teeth that tugs a moan from him in turn. A wicked tongue flicks at his nipple before it gets bitten, then soothed with a broad lick, then bitten again. He hisses as he gets a deeper bite to one side of his belly, then a curve of kisses arcs towards his groin… and away from it, digging another hard bite into his thigh that delivers a dart of pleasure which has his cock throbbing.

Henry proceeds to lift his legs and kiss, nip, and suck tiny marks into both thighs, heading upwards and inwards until he’s writhing at the soft, wet, warm pressure lifting his balls, tongueing behind them, then surrounding each one in turn. He whimpers again. “Please, Henry.”

“What was that?”

“_Please._”

He raises his head, cups his ear. “Didn’t quite catch– _Ahh!_”

Oliver tightens his hold in Henry’s hair and snarls: “Suck my cock, you perfidious tease, or I’ll bind you hand and foot.”

“I– I might _like_ that, though.”

Isaac is shaking the bed in great, soundless chuffs of near-hysterical laughter.

“Fine. I’ll tie you to that chair and make you watch as we fuck, without a hand on you.”

“Oh, now, hold on…”

“I’ll let you go in time for your meeting, though.” Further shudders of mirth from Isaac.

“Pull me down,” he says, and his voice is hoarse with desire. “Pull me down to your cock and guide me. I’ll have you coming inside of five minutes.”

“Kiss me first,” and he drags him up, feeling like he could drown in the openness of Henry’s gaze, closing his eyes as Henry kisses him deeply, settling his cock alongside his, and feels something like a flare of panic at how fucking _familiar_ this all is.

He feels Isaac shift closer, his sticky heat against his arm, feels Henry goes slack against him, then start to grind, gasping hotly against his neck, and he cracks his eyes open enough to understand that Isaac has swept his hand down Henry’s back to grip his arse, encouraging this new undulation.

He peers sideways at him. “Well, you were right.”

“Of course I was right.”

“About the manhandling?” Henry is beautifully breathless, dripping sweat, stinging-slick against him.

“No,” growls Isaac, and they both shudder for it, “taking orders. Especially from him.”

Henry raises his head, lip bitten, eyes enormous, hips still in motion against him. “Oliver, may I bring you? Please?”

It takes him a moment to parse – ‘to bring’ as a corollary of ‘to come’ – then he nods. “Do you–” he licks his lips; they feel suddenly dry. “Do you want me to… take command of you?”

“Not just now, and thank you for asking, but your hand in my hair feels… Oh, Oliver, please do that for as long as you can?”

“Yes,” he promises, already feeling close to gone. Relieved, if he’s honest, not to have to look after someone while in this state.

Henry smiles, broad and bright, kisses him so sweetly it’s almost chaste, turns his head to claim one from Isaac, then ducks to kiss his way swiftly down Oliver’s belly to lay more – broader, wetter – on his aching cock.

“Now, it’s been a while…” he says with a ghost of a wink, and before Oliver can ask, he’s gasping as Henry takes hold of him and pulls him, slowly, all the way into the back of his mouth, hollowing his cheeks against him, nudging at his throat.

“Fuck. Fuck!” His free hand finds Isaac’s. He’s not going to last at all if that keeps happening.

Henry coughs his way back, hums, and tries again, this time swallowing him down entirely, tongue still moving against him, and Oliver stands no chance. Wracked with pleasure he undulates, keening, just this side of dissolution until Isaac whispers: “He wants you to fuck his mouth,” and Henry’s enthusiastic _mm-hm_ buzzes and ripples across him so he’s thrusting now, crying out, grips tightening as he spends himself deep in his throat, echoing, falling, flying, falling.

“Christ, look at his eyes – they’ve literally changed colour, I swear!”

“Beautiful. Oliver, will you let go of my hair, please?”

“Uhhm…”

“Thank you. I’m going to make some sounds now. Let me know if anything’s unpleasant.”

“You’re gonna do that _now?_”

“Trust me, now is _perfect_. And try stroking him – very lightly.”

“Anywhere?”

“Inner arms and thighs, torso, neck, maybe palms? Try it out, anyway – soft and gentle.” He switches to a hoarse whisper that scores gentle nails down him: “That’s it.”

A broad stripe of blue-green arcs down his left arm. “_Hnn…_”

There’s a ripple of orange down his chest to his belly, where it turns yellowish.

Raindrop fingertips of orange and burnt umber down the opposite flank. “Mmmh. More. P’hhh–” he pants, leaning into the sensations like he’s rarely done before.

A low, textured hum from above him, a brief clearing of the throat and then it starts again.

“I’m gonna get you some water.”

“You are a saint.”

A short laugh that pelts him like the earlier fingertips. Even the creak and swish of skin and fabric, steps on the floor, all pepper him with texture.

The growling hum begins again, morphs into a rill of r’s, and he’s arching beneath them, coruscating, “Ah! _Ahhhh…_”

The whisper with a hint of voice again: “Ave Marrria, grrratia plena, Dominus tecum.” Each consonant is a gentle flick of a fingernail, each vowel a stroke, and he writhes pleasurably under them.

“Kinell.”

“Shhh!” And that’s a silvery wash across him, almost tickling. He grins and giggles, weaving to try to catch the droplets. “Hhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr…” Like a plain chiffon floating down and then somehow drumming against him.

A clink and a swallow. “Thank you. Try stroking him again.”

There is warm weight on his hips and around his flanks, anchoring him, happy and safe, cinnamon and terracotta. More melding coloured flourishes paint his skin, and the soft sounds (_Orrra prrro nnobis pecatorrribus, nunc_…) lift and shiver through him on a spectrum of colours and textures for an unknowable while.

The effect becomes less intense, and the weight shifts. He stretches, breathing colours, melting into sounds, but more solid now, a touch more mundane… “Aramis,” he murmurs. “Thank you. God, thank you. That was– Mmmhhhh. Mmm…”

“Here, I did some too.”

“P’hhh… Mmh. Gorgeous. Thank you. Mmh.” His voice is thick and ungainly, and he doesn’t care, wants to wear this like a badge. “Can. Mmh. Can someone kiss me now? Please?”

“Of course.” His weight shifts again and presses the length of him, and he kisses softly, tasting himself, tasting sweat and musk and–

Another set of lips nudges at his cheek and, smiling, he turns into that embrace, opening his eyes slowly, smiling against his lips.

“You back, then?”

“Nearly. Nearly. You ready?”

“When you are.”

“After three?”

“What’s going on?”

“One,” he grips his wrist.

“Er…”

“Two,” he tenses.

“Hey, g–”

“Three,” he twists and, assisted, spills the weight above to the mattress between them, and starts to pepper his chest with kisses.

“Ohhh!”

“Say the word and we let you go, yes?” His voice and vision are still a little unchancy, but that doesn’t seem to matter to… hm, to Henry, spell it out carefully. _Henry_. Who mewls and writhes, submerged already.

“_Henry!_”

“Yes?”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. Please. _Hnnh!_ I’ll say if– I’ll say. Please. Touch me!”

Christ. A man could lose himself entirely to that kind of entreaty. P– no. He shakes his head. Isaac. _Isaac_, clearly affected, is kissing him again, holding him by the left wrist against the bed next to his head, running a ripple of fingers down his torso. Oliver ducks in to lick at his nipple, a payback of tongue flicks and teeth which have their subject chuckling and moaning together.

Isaac joins him on the other side, and between them they range up and down his torso, sometimes to his neck, at one point each of them buried in the crook of either shoulder, sucking and licking, feeling him arch and moan and try to writhe against them both at the same time. Following Isaac’s lead, he pins his thigh when he reaches Henry’s hip, teasing sensation over the sharp shelf of bone, mourning a touch for how little spare flesh there is on him, wondering briefly about meals missed, especially in the care of others.

No matter now – the closer the bone to the surface, the more sensitive the skin, and so it proves here, him writhing against his constraints at the scrape of teeth, the lash of tongue. He ducks around to suck hard on his inner thigh, knowing the proximity will be torturous, combined with his hair tickling over even more sensitive regions.

He’s never used his hair as part of sex before – never had sufficient length. It’s enough to make him want to grow it out even further, and he smiles for that, knowing Henry can feel it.

Isaac mirrors him and meets him there, nuzzling him into a kiss that starts sweet and ends surprisingly passionate. As they break apart, panting, he spares a look across and down. Isaac is already half-hard again. He feels a rush of lust, considers diving onto his cock, and something in his expression must have deepened with his heat as Isaac lifts the hand holding Henry’s leg and cups his jaw, drawing him into a deep kiss as filthy as anything that’s gone before.

Henry writhes and snarls: “¡Joder! ¡Cabrónes!”

He sounds so outraged that Oliver finds himself laughing aloud for it.

“¡Hijo de puta, deja de reír y bésame!”

“Ask nicely,” he guesses, tone as stern as he can make it.

“_¡Por favor!_” He’s softer now, entreating.

“English…” he reproves.

“I dunno – it sounds pretty cool, him begging in another tongue.”

“Yes, but if he’s asking us to let go, that’s more tricky.”

“Bésame… mi amado… mis amados… por favor…” and this time the hot caress of the words against Oliver leaves him in no doubt. The word even sounds like the action. He leans in, kisses him softly, feeling him still for a moment, returning it sweetly, then he moans as Isaac does something, and he’s deepening it, turning filthy, demanding… “¡Joder!” he groans, head going back as he hauls in air.

Oliver twists to see that Isaac is mouthing delicately over the base of Henry’s cock, and, as he watches, entranced, lifts away to tickle over his balls with the tip of his tongue. The sight has him swelling in earnest himself.

They use fingertips and tongue tips to trace over every part of his torso and between his legs, while he – they suspect – entreats and lauds and berates them in a torrent of gasped Spanish that beats against his senses even as they both narrow in on his cock while his own lust rises again to cloud him, tasting where he’s dripped a steady stream of arousal onto his belly, still skirting the source for as long as they can.

“Es como… un río… que fluye hacia atrás. Estoy– Estamos– Puedo vernos a todos…”

“That’s beautiful, but… no hablo español, love.” Sitting up, he looks over at Oliver. “What’s ‘I can’t understand’?”

“I have no idea. Je ne comprends pas.”

“C’est pour vous, tout pour vous. Pour nous. La rivière–”

“Is that French?”

“Yes, I–” Another shiver of translation, and yet he’s still here, with them.

“Tout pour vous,” «all for you. Today’s our day. I told you.»

“Yeah, you did, love. Loud and clear.” Dark hand stroking down his flank and thigh, broad palm, grounding.

«Oh, God, I want to come.»

“What’s that?” he smirks, rearing up himself, teasing in another payback. “Didn’t quite…”

«Please, Athos, please. I want… Oh God, please bring me, I can’t _bear_ it!»

“Of course,” amusement dropping off him as he feels something like _duty_ fill his chest. This is what it means to… This– Something like fear won’t let him complete the thought. He releases his wrist, watches him reach up to cup his face.

«You’re so beautiful.» 

“So are you. Hush. We’re going to take care of you.” He slides down his body, feeling his mouth watering as he takes in his scent and warmth again, stokes himself with the notion of tasting him directly, feeling his heat in his mouth. Oh _God!_

«Porthos!»

“Yes, love?”

«Kiss me, oh, Mother of God, please kiss me.»

“I’ve got you.”

Oh Christ, it’s been so long since he’s done this, feels fleetingly that old stab of worry that the scar will be rough against his skin, but Aramis’s moans fill his ears as he slides him in, groaning for his own arousal. God, the taste. Fuck! He revels in the texture, moving broad and glorious, pulsing over his tongue, against the roof of his mouth. He forces himself to take it slowly, learn him, but… but he _knows_ him already. He knows everything there is to know; how hard, how soft, how fast now that he’s this aroused. He suckles on him, tongue rippling, feels a gut-punch of his own desire slam through him, his hips tilting to rut against the bedding, vividly imagines (remembers?) fucking him hard and deep and wonders dazedly if he can come again so soon. He hollows his cheeks against him, hears him cry out, muffled as it is against Porthos’s mouth. He digs his fingertips into his hips, hauls him as deep into his mouth as he dares, caressing, moaning, filling his senses with him.

Above him, Porthos is crooning. “Come on love, come for us. I wanna see it, hear it. He wants to taste you, feel you come apart. I’ll have my turn tomorrow, and you remember what I can do with my tongue. For now, though…”

Athos groans himself for this, hearing it twine with Aramis’s wild keening as the mattress tilts a little, peers up to see him pinned again, and he’s right here, sucking, bobbing, tongueing, feeling him undulating desperately, then the telltale tightening, the pulse just ahead of his shout, which echoes through bone and blood:

«Oh, yes! _God!_» and a jumble of consonants that could be anything, but he knows it’s their names.

He jets into his throat, over and over, and he brings his mouth up a touch so he can swallow more comfortably (for both of them), taste those last pulses directly, tongue his slit gently as he settles, wonders if he’s got it in him to coax him to another; is he too tired, maybe save it?

Maybe _ask?_

Oh.

He winds his tongue around as he withdraws, Aramis’s hands patting awkwardly at him, and Porthos is there, suddenly, to pull him up onto his knees and kiss him deeply, searching for the taste, and he lets him, sucking on the questing tongue, moaning into him, feeling his hardness against his belly, oh fuck, his teeth in his lip. Ah. Ah yes. Suddenly loud as a large hand takes both of them together in one pulsing grip, and pumps steadily, biting at his mouth, his throat, burying his head in the crook of his neck and rocking, ah, ah _fuck yes!_

A smaller hand on his back, a kiss on his hip. «Let go, my love.»

He does. They do.

Together they lick Porthos’s hand clean and, when Aramis grumbles, they cuddle up to him either side, let him lick the last of it off them, and kiss, very softly, dragging pillows into the right conformation for each of them, wriggling, sighing, hooking sweat-sticky limbs together and sinking; letting go, letting go, letting go.

The last thing he remembers Porthos saying before sleep claims him is: “Christ, I’ve missed this. Next time, let’s not leave it so long, eh?”

They hum agreement, nod, fall.

Outside and in, it’s a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8389 words of mostly filth, and psychedelic filth to boot. I’d say I was ashamed, but we all know that’s not true! And if you’re thinking: _Huh, that’s a bit fantastical, someone starting to speak another language during sex…_, here’s a first-hand account: _it really does happen…_
> 
> #### Translations
> 
> ##### Latin
> 
> Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum = Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee – the beginning of the [Catholic prayer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hail_Mary) used to request intercession from the Virgin Mary.
> 
> Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc… = Pray for us sinners, now… – essentially the penultimate line (and a bit) of the Hail Mary.
> 
> ##### Spanish
> 
> (Please let me know if Google Translate is messing with me!)
> 
> “¡Joder! ¡Cabrónes!” = Fuck! You arseholes!
> 
> “¡Hijo de puta, deja de reír y bésame!” = Son of a bitch, stop laughing and kiss me!
> 
> “_¡Por favor!_” = _Please!_
> 
> “Bésame… mi amado… mis amados… por favor…” = Kiss me… my belovèd… my belovèds… please…
> 
> “¡Joder!” = Fuck!
> 
> “Es como… un río… que fluye hacia atrás. Estoy– Estamos– Puedo vernos a todos…” = It's like… a river… flowing backwards. I’m– We’re– I can see us all…
> 
> no hablo español = I don’t speak Spanish
> 
> ##### French
> 
> Je ne comprends pas. = I don’t understand.
> 
> “C’est pour vous, tout pour vous. Pour nous. La rivière–” = It’s for you*, all for you*. For us. The river– *you plural
> 
> “Tout pour vous,” = All for you* *you plural


	21. In Accord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes: some more sexytimes here, but less explicit than the previous chapter, and enough hints about plot-relevant stuff that came up that you don’t need to read #20 to get #21’s aftermath. Probably.

Heavy and warm and… he shifts. Aching. Yes, aching – back, neck, and right shoulder especially. He eases the shoulder into an easier angle against the mattress, absently blesses the manufacturers, and the people who thought up memory foam in the first place. Is it one of those NASA things…?

He frowns lightly. The room is brighter than anticipated, and… noisier. The wind is strong, and a voice nearby is singing something indistinct, with an air of complex happiness. He grumbles to himself for fanciful thinking and projection.

Hold on: projection. That means… Well, yes, he guesses he’s feeling happy. Content anyway.

Wait. Wait, _hold on_–

He eyes bolt open. Ahead, the rumpled expanse of sheets, over which he resists the urge to sweep his disappointed arm only by hauling hard on the reins of his impulse.

So this is how this feels. He’s deliberately never wondered. He sags nonetheless.

Then the bed shifts and rustles, further warmth blossoms along his back, and he realises that he hasn’t been hearing the wind at all, but the rather more unfamiliar sound of sleepy breathing nearby.

“Mmmh. Mornin’,” mumbles a thick voice behind him.

Blinking, he reconfigures the past 24 hours as breath gusts over his neck and between his shoulder blades, summoning tiny shivers, right on the border of uncomfortable.

“So, I’m tryna to work out… if you’re a mornin’-after huggin’ kind o’ person. And you might have to drop some clues, or I’ll leave you alone to sleep more…”

A smile lights over him. “I have no idea, as it happens, so let’s try.”

He can _hear_ him grinning. “I’m game. Hold still, then. I’m comin’ to you.”

More heat, and a gentle weight pressing against his back, then a warm arm slides over his left flank and a hand drops over his waist.

“There. How’s that?”

“Mmh. Yes.” He shuffles a little back into the warmth and brings his arm up to lay it over the one around him.

They lie there quietly for a moment, just breathing, until Isaac tucks his legs up to crook behind his own, and something gently breaks inside him. And barely hurts to do so. He lets out a sigh for it, nuzzles a little with hips and shoulders.

“Oh, that’s dangerous, that.”

“Hmm?”

Isaac’s arm tightens, and he feels sweat spring out between them, a ticking length nudging upwards towards the small of his back. He groans.

“Yeah, especially if you make noises like that.”

He can feel his own arousal climbing as his breath stutters, Isaac’s becoming not heavier, but _edged_, somehow, and all at once he abandons the voice that had started to point out that this isn’t his usual morning routine, and he’s never, and he shouldn’t, and what would– because what about any of this is usual?

And what about _usual_ is this good?

“Ah.” He feels himself grinning hard around that, then Isaac’s lips pausing just behind his shoulder. “Oh, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Please.”

And that wonderful mouth starts kissing, gently at first, then more firmly as he makes his approval known with a hand reached back to his hip and a breathy moan. Isaac nuzzles up his neck and under his ear, adding a tongue-tip to curl around the back, under the lobe.

“God, that feels good.”

“Yeah…” Isaac’s hips roll slightly, his breath stuttering. “Yeah, it does.”

“Mmh. Mm, where’s Henry?”

“Gone to get a shower.”

“Oh.” He hears his voice and his happiness descend a notch.

A quiet chuckle and another nip. “I meant _here_.”

“Oh. Oh, the singing.”

“The singing.”

He remembers something vaguely. “Did he ask me about towels?”

“Yeah, after asking you about bread.”

“Christ, he’s a mornings person, isn’t he?”

“And a late nights person too.”

“We’re doomed.”

“Oh no…”

Isaac’s hand has just crept up to brush his nipple lightly when there’s a shriek from the direction of the bathroom, followed by a torrent of swearwords in at least three languages that have them convulsing with hilarity after their original startlement. The main import of these imprecations is that the water is excessively cold.

Isaac is gasping with laughter. “That’ll teach him to check first!”

Oliver is no better. “He’s going to be even more enraged when he finds out it’s not an accident!”

Isaac’s snuffles slow. “You mean you… wait, you have _cold showers?!_”

“In the mornings, yes.”

“Is this a Northern thing or a posh thing?”

He shrugs as best he can. “Both? Or just a me thing? They wake me up.”

“See, that’s coz you ain’t been waking up in a better way for a while…” The hand creeps back up his chest and he feels himself swimming with desire again.

“Ever, actually,” he confesses on a gasp.

“Oh. So this is…”

“The first time I’ve woken up with someone like this, yes.”

“Wow.”

“I like it.”

Isaac presses his grin into the junction of Oliver’s neck and shoulder. “Good answer.”

“I didn’t know there was a… _oh_, uh, a question.” Isaac’s fingers are busy against him.

“You’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Are you, _ah_, are you going to teach me?”

“I think I might get some assistance from an expert, but…” his tone drops a little, “if you want to learn, then yeah…”

“Show me,” he finds himself saying as he writhes against Isaac’s heat. “Please.”

“Christ,” and the lips on his neck draw back and teeth press very gently into his skin.

“_Mmmh!_”

Water drums against porcelain and flesh nearby, and Henry’s humming sweetly.

Isaac reaches up further and brushes Oliver’s hair off his neck. He hauls himself a little higher, pressing (probably incidentally) further into him. He sucks air in through his teeth. “Ooh.”

“‘Ooh’?”

“Yeah, we, er– Yeah, you might wanna keep your collar buttoned for a few days at work, mate.”

“You… mh. You mean there are marks?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.” His voice quivers a little.

“Ohhh…” the grins returns to Isaac’s voice. “_I_ see. Well, here’s a proper little bruise…” he presses gently, circles with his fingertip. He can feel the small, deep sting echo through him, his breath shuddering. “And here and _here_, there are sort of little red marks, pretty faint, especially now you’re starting to blush so…”

“Oh.” He wriggles, can’t help it.

“And _here_’s…” fingers skate up the side of his neck. “Yeah, I reckon this big one’s Henry’s.”

“Why?”

“My teeth don’t look like this.”

“Shit.” He presses back, grinds a little against Isaac, who growls lightly. “Fuck.”

“Clearly _you_’re a mornings person an’ all…”

“I’m _really_ not, but with you telling me, I mean… Mmh, _usually_, with any marks, it’s…” he’s gasping now, wondering if he can– if he should–

He _wants_–

“Private,” breathes Isaac. “Yeah,” he says, “I can see that.” He hums and brushes his lips across Oliver’s sensitised skin. “Got plenty to catalogue, I reckon – not covered the half of them here.”

“Ah, Christ,” he moans.

“Now, as I recall, you ain’t that fond of teasing, though, you know, last night’s build-up was a fair few hours, but I’m getting the impression that–” Oliver twists back and tries to kiss him, but he dodges, chuckling. “Cheeky. Shouldn’t you ask first?”

Oliver slumps forward again. “I’m sorry. That was terribly rude of me.”

“Well, we’ll overlook it this time, I’m sure. ’Sides, I’m all morning breath.”

“So am I.”

“Good point.” A pause. “Hm.”

“Well?” he demands.

“Huh. Is that how you usually ask for a kiss?”

Oliver takes two deliberately deep breaths. “Isaac, will you kiss me? Please?”

“Fuck.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh yeah.” His hands beckon Oliver around until he’s lying on his back and then their mouths are meeting, hot and wet, and, okay, redolent of morning breath after late-night pizza, but it’s amazing how quickly that realisation fades.

Isaac asks a question of his own, and he says (well, gasps) an affirmation, so it’s to them writhing, moaning, and kissing, Isaac’s hand working steadily on him, that Henry returns, briskly towelling his hair. “You know, apart from the temperature ambush, that’s a lovely sh–” The towel drops to the floor. “Dear God.”

“Get up here,” grates Isaac.

“Kind of regretting that shower now…”

“Get. Up. Here.”

Isaac turns him again so that he’s on his side, facing Henry, who, with a look of awe, swiftly unhooks his bag from his shoulder and slots himself down, facing him, running soft fingers over his cheek and leaning in to kiss him. His skin is cool and moist, breathing freshness. He’s like the dawn, breaking over them, gentle and reverent.

Soon, though, he’s heating rapidly through midmorning, moaning into their kisses, fingertips digging deeper, heading towards noon. Isaac runs his hand down the tightening gap between their bodies and Henry lets out a very breathy moan.

“Hold on!” Oliver’s drawing back, a little indignant. “Did you…” he dips his head and sniffs. “Did you _brush your teeth?!_”

Henry looks a little baffled. “Yes? Shouldn’t I have?” Oliver glares. “Oh! No! No, I carry my own toothbrush.”

“Course you do,” says Isaac. “Spare underwear and all, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Not so much these days,” he mutters, and Isaac guffaws.

“Yeah, at your age it’s important to keep all your one-night-stands to a cyclable distance, or finish early enough that you can still catch the Number 2 home!”

The lack of retaliation has Oliver sending his gaze up to Henry’s eyes, which seem a little distant, in a markedly cooler expression.

“Henry…” he says, as softly as possible, trying to say with expression and hand on his arm that he wants him close but he can back off if he wants.

“What?” asks Isaac, amusement bleeding out of his voice.

Henry’s nostrils are flaring and his eyes gleam a little too much.

“Damn,” Oliver says.

Henry sniffs, stiff-jawed. “It’s nothing. I– I have that meeting to get to, anyway,” and he makes to draw away entirely.

“Henry!” says Isaac. “I’m sorry. What’d I say?”

Oliver sees the moment Henry decides, and it’s a very long and – for him, and probably Isaac too – breathless one.

Henry’s gaze returns, locks onto Oliver’s. It’s deep with too many emotions, but he fights to hold it, tightening his hand a fraction on his arm. “Would you like me to tell him?”

Henry sniffs again. “No. No, it’s alright. I’ll– Um, it’s not fair not to have told him.”

Isaac’s voice is as gentle as Oliver’s ever heard it: “Tell me what?”

A deep breath; his eyes flicker closed. “I lost my partner, um, beginning of this year. Cancer. We’d… It’s–” Another deep breath. His brow creases. His eyes open, gazing towards the bed.

“Shit. That sucks.”

Henry makes a breathy chuff of sound. “It really does.”

“How long were you together?”

“Er, nearly nine years.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. We, er, we weren’t exclusive, so it hasn’t been _that_ long since, you know, new people for me, but, well, long enough – few years…”

“What was his name?” And Oliver heats hard to realise that he never asked. Normal people ask these sorts of things, don’t they?

Henry grins mirthlessly. “When I met her, she was called Heidi. Weird, Scandinavian in-joke. But I called her Del.”

The world swims again for a moment. He thinks, muzzily: _he didn’t lose her after all_, then the thought darts away, leaving a shimmering wake in his mind.

“Oh,” says Isaac again, and shifts behind Oliver. His hand leaves his hip and travels up, hovers. “May I touch you, Henry?”

Another tiny laugh, more of a gulp this time. “Y-yes?”

The broad palm cups his cheek and his thumb strokes, incredibly gently, under his eye.

Oliver feels his abdomen lurch against him. “Oh, _Henry_…” He slips his hand to the small of his back reflexively and the man starts to cry, very softly, in his arms. They pull him closer, Isaac leaning up, half over Oliver, in order to reach better.

Somehow unsurprisingly, Isaac keeps up a gentle flow of soothing sounds, stroking Henry’s hair and down over his neck, shoulder, and back – long, slow, grounding sweeps as he shudders and leaks, brow buried in the crook of Oliver’s neck. Oliver, flung back to comforting his brother, aged seven, just holds him close, left arm flexing a little about his waist, brushing his cheek against Henry’s every so often.

After a while, Henry kind of flails at them, leaning back, sniffing hard, and muttering “Okay, okay…”

Oliver twists his neck, says to Isaac: “Tissues, bedside cabinet, your side.”

“Gotcha.” His body flings away, legs still touching theirs, as though leaving them entirely just isn’t an option, then bounces back with the box, taps Henry’s arm with it. Henry grabs a couple, scrubs his face and wipes his nose. “Go on – have a good blow.”

Oliver flinches slightly for the loudness so close to his face, but keeps his hand firmly on Henry’s flank. He’s really not sure what to do, but Henry isn’t throwing off their touch, and he has that strong, singing conviction that Henry is a man who craves physical connection – giving and receiving – especially in times of high emotion.

Red-rimmed eyes peer at him, face creasing awkwardly. Without much thought, he cups the back of his neck with his hand, lifts his own chin to kiss him on the brow, feeling the wrinkles untwist under his lips. “Okay?”

“No,” he snuffles, “but better.”

“Sometimes you just need a good cry,” says Isaac, philosophically.

Henry looks up at him, propped on his elbow and against Oliver’s back, seeming a little startled. “Where on earth did I find you two?”

“Fitzwilliam Museum, Trumpington Road, Cambridge,” the bigger man responds promptly. “Dunno the postcode – ain’t been there long enough yet.”

Henry, of all things, giggles at this, and Oliver smirks a little himself. 

Henry’s expression sharpens a little. “So go on then,” he challenges. “Let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“_Your_ tragic backstory.”

“Erm…” He twists to look at Isaac, who grins.

“Easy.” He sits up and starts counting on his fingers. “Orphaned. Fostered. Frustrated. Petty crime. Petty criminals. Fresh start on the other side.” He hoists the thumb he used for the final point and his grin may be a little hard, but it reaches his eyes. “Your turn.”

“Me?” He feels his face twist, hoists himself on one elbow. The occasion seems to call for it. “Er, rich kid disagrees with right-wing father, abandons family business to younger brother, unlikely to continue family line short of medical miracle?”

Isaac snorts at the last part and claps him on the shoulder.

“Oh.” Henry sounds disappointed. “So no illegitimate heir by the tortured love affair that put you off women for life, then?”

“Nope.” He keeps his face remarkably straight, considering the provocation.

“No rich boy going off the rails with spectacular substance abuse?”

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I barely even drink. I mean, I suppose it might have dampened the…” he swirls his finger around his skull, “but it just screws up my balance. My main rebellion was being stubbornly good at maths and getting good grades at a red brick university.” he widens his eyes in a mock-dramatic flash at this last.

“Plus the phenomenally successful book lambasting everything your family has stood for over the last few hundred years.”

He seesaws a hand for this, face slanting.

“What’s this?”

“He’s famous.”

“I’m _really_ not.”

“Arntcha?”

“Maybe slightly.”

“He’s a meme.”

“Nice.” He pitches the volume to override Oliver’s splutters, waggles his eyebrows. “Mind, don’t know if I’m more impressed with that or snogging you in the Seventeenth Century.”

He cocks a drily amused look around at him. “Since I honestly couldn’t have told you about any of our surroundings, _I_’m impressed with your attention to detail.”

Isaac smirks. “Well, s’why they hired me, innit?”

“Will you stay, do you think?”

“Dunno.” Sniffs, pushes his mouth down-up. “Don’t even know if they’ll want me. Don’t even know if I was properly on the books – fuck knows what games Lester played there.”

Henry’s eyes go wide for a moment, one brow raising. “Bloody hell…”

“Zackly.” He sighs. “I’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. In the meantime?” He flops to his back, bouncing the pair of them slightly, jostling them together so that they peek apologies and chagrin at each other. “I reckon I’ll chill out while I can. Unless…?” Oliver twists over to peer at him. He peers back, sidelong. “I mean, I can head off if you’d rather…”

“No, no. Stay. You know – as long as you want to.”

“There’s another dangerous offer.” He grins, eyes flashing, hooks him gently to pull him to his back between them.

Oliver smirks up at him, then turns his head, sobering. “Henry, do you want to ta–?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet. I should have, but I didn’t, and I don’t want to now. Um. If that’s okay?”

“Whatever you need,” he says, almost surprised to hear how much he means that. And yet it’s the only thing to say, after all.

“Actually?”

“Yes?”

“Er, this is going to sound weird, possibly, I don’t know. But, um, could you, er, would you kiss me again? Please?”

“Of course.” And he does, leaning in and cupping his cheek, hearing Henry’s slightly stertorous breath clear as they kiss, sweetly and carefully at first, until Henry mutters something under his breath and dives closer, hands somewhat grabby, gathering him in and biting a little at his lower lip. He worries about how far to take distracting Henry. He also worries about being used as a distraction. He wonders how he can be sure, feeling restraint fade under the man’s determination.

“Bloody hell,” comes Isaac’s voice. “I mean: that’s hot as hell, but go gently on him, eh?”

“Sorry,” says Henry, instantly, withdrawing slightly.

He soothes him again with long strokes along his arm, copied from Isaac, feels the desperate tension in Henry eddy away a little. “How long until your meeting?”

“What time is it now?”

“Eleven. Ish,” says Isaac, who’s moved in closer again.

“Well, a couple of hours.”

“Would you like some breakfast?” The options are limited, but he has enough to offer guests.

Henry’s mouth quirks. “Does that mean: ‘Would I like some _breakfast,_’ or ‘Would I _like_ some…’” raise of eyebrow, “‘_breakfast?_’”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to prevent them from visibly rolling. “I’m even less good with that kind of thing before I’ve eaten, so: if you’re asking whether I’m offering cereal or a blowjob,” he opens his eyes, “I _was_ offering cereal.”

Isaac snorts against the back of his neck. Henry sniggers, and he feels his own breath finally go deep to see and hear that.

“Come on, then,” he says, heaving himself up again, ignoring the voice saying _exercise before food!_ – I’m having a rest day, he tells it, decisively, and immediately feels better.

He pulls loose, grey tracksuit trousers on, and then shrugs at the others, gesturing at the chest of drawers. “You want…?”

Isaac shakes his head. “We’ll sort ourselves out.”

“Well, um… borrow anything, just…”

“We’ll put it in the laundry afterwards,” soothes Henry, who’s looking better by the second. “Go on.”

He swerves via the living room, plucking his mobile out of his jacket. It has 14% battery and he frowns at it, wandering into the kitchen while checking his work emails (nothing important; he opens the departmental head’s message in order to send a read receipt to the punctilious PA who sent it, then closes it again because it clearly contains at least 750 words and no actual content; he Skype texts the office manager to belatedly let her know he’ll be working from home – “Don’t blame you, the air conditioning here is close to death and there’s only 3 of us in anyway. *Stay there!*”) and absentmindedly plugging it in next to the kettle. As the others chatter in after him, he pulls out plates, bowls, spoons, knives, margarine (staring at the takeout boxes stacked around it), milk, cereal, and bread.

There is less of the latter than he expected. He looks at Henry, who, wide-eyed, says: “You said to help myself!”

Isaac smirks, claps Henry on the back. “Yeah, but he was about ninety percent asleep.” He is wearing last night’s teeshirt from under his more formal shirt, and Oliver’s dressing gown, roughly belted. He looks at home. Oliver briefly wishes he found that more odd. Henry has wrapped the damp towel around his waist and is hovering with the air of someone who is feeling a bit spare. Oliver realises that Henry is usually the host. He, Oliver, is usually the person awkwardly drinking someone else’s tea and trying heroically not to think about their washing-up technique. He spares a small smile for this, which Henry nods gratefully back for, and leans against the high table. Oliver, covering the urge to kiss him breathless again, asks for drinks preferences and does his best not to panic. This is a lot more Other People than he usually… ever… does of a morning.

After a horrible while of them watching him in silence, the others, perhaps realising the weight of this, begin to talk softly to each other. He tunes it out, helped by the roar of the kettle, gathering his twitching fingers into a fist when he sees them tapping aimlessly on the work surface, only to find his knuckles knocking against it just as arrhythmically.

Abruptly, with that beautiful instinct he’s shown time and again, Henry’s hand covers his, arms coming warm around from behind him. Oliver struggles for all of two seconds before slumping just enough into the cradle of his chest for Henry to hum, enveloping him in sound.

He feels tension bleeding out of him as the tap gushes and Isaac sets a full glass in front of him. “Unless you filter it or something?”

He shakes his head. “I’m from Sheffield.”

“I take it that means you’re used to chewing your drinks as well.”

Henry makes a soft, scoffing sound.

“Yeah, yeah. We can’t all grow up in the mineral water capital of the world.”

He twists to catch the face that Henry has pulled to summon such a guffaw from Isaac, but sees only a sundering kind of softness. He reaches and rather throws back the water, immediately feeling somewhat better.

“I need to, um,” he gestures with his thumb over his shoulder.

Isaac winks, then looks as though he wishes he hadn’t, and he finally feels a good smile, buoyed by laughter, well and bloom over him.

When he gets back from the bathroom, they’re sat, chatting, Isaac having made free with his cereal and another cup of tea, Henry fiddling with a mostly-drained glass of water, and he spares a moment, leaning against the doorframe, to appreciate how well they fit, both here and together. They could have known each other for over a decade.

Then he sees that they’re not both sitting. They’ve left the other stool for him, and Henry’s leaning against the table again. The words have petered out and Isaac’s gazing into his bowl, grinning softly, if that’s the right pairing of words, and Henry’s lightly flushed and looking incredibly pleased with… well, whatever’s transpired. As he looks on, Henry starts to lean closer as Isaac looks up, both their expressions dropping open a little, and the bigger man is reaching, cupping the back of Henry’s head as their breath mingles and Oliver’s is locked in his chest.

The kiss starts softly, reverently enough, but soon deepens, so slowly that Oliver struggles to get enough air into himself, feeling like he’s suspended, somehow, in some incalculably honey-sweet moment. It’s intensely private and _not_ simultaneously, and he can’t tell which part is the more exciting.

Reflecting that Isaac will all-too-likely refuse to kiss him until he’s eaten, he slides into his own kitchen like an interloper, only to spot a dark finger pointed at the bowl and spoon set at the other place, milk sitting innocently alongside it, before said hand rises to caress Henry’s arm.

He’s going to have to buy more milk. And bread. And inevitably an array of ridiculous teas. Probably fruit juice. Maybe even eggs. He grimaces for the idea of such a smell in the morning, dismisses it. He’ll just say no. He tucks into breakfast, occasionally touching the back of his fingers to his cheek to confirm that, yes, it’s as hot as suspected. Ahead of him the kiss has finally ranged to Isaac’s neck. The man’s near fingers grip the tabletop, knuckles pale with strain, and he realises that he’s holding himself back from seizing Henry as hard as that, careful of his own strength. He feels he finally knows what “heart-melting” means in this moment of realisation, sweet warmth sagging through his chest.

Looking down, he sees he’s managed to clear his bowl without even noticing. He stands, carries the remnants of both breakfasts to the sink, roughly rinses everything and then leaves it, switching the tap off and leaning, fingers fast around the lip of the basin.

He is mapless.

And he knows exactly where he is and wants to be.

This is the most excited he’s been about anything in his life for years. It’s as though Oliver Montague Wrote A Book happened to someone else. The leak, the launch, various high-profile interviews and Fucking Question Time were through a pane of glass, even while he felt the frustration and rage sweep him away. This? This is him, his, and he doesn’t want dissociation’s blanket between him and it; he wants to be here, utterly, as much as he can ever be.

He turns, leans back against the metal for a sharp moment, then launches himself towards them, heeling down the _you’re interfering! you’ve read it wrong again! you’re not wanted!_ reaching for Isaac’s shoulders, and arms are hauling him in, hard and soft and warm, and he can’t work out who begins and ends where, losing himself in the best way.

Isaac’s lips are kiss-swollen and hot beneath his, tongue enthusiastic. Henry hums a biting kiss against the back of his neck and he moans into Isaac who stands in a rush and bundles the pair of them out of the hard-edged, sharp-cornered place to blink in the brighter light of the living room.

They don’t make it as far as the bedroom this time, but they do manage an extra surge of energy that sees them to the sofa. And the rug beneath it.

Afterwards Oliver will happily, repeatedly reconfigure the series of impressions left him by this sunlit moment, chief among them:

Henry’s face dropping open, sprawling, pinned, Isaac kissing down his torso, accelerating beneath a series of chorused moans until he tears open the towel when he reaches his goal, plunging with a single-minded intensity that has Henry keening, heels drumming on the floor until Isaac wraps his arms around his thighs and he sighs in bliss, weirdly silent for a moment of utter safety until Oliver reclines in to tug his hair, starts murmuring filthy suggestions just to hear him moan again.

The feeling of Isaac’s hands weaving through the back of his hair as he sits on the edge of the sofa and Oliver kneels between his legs, taking him as deep into his mouth as he can, drowning in the scent and taste, revelling in the texture, Henry recovering enough to draw his fingertips down his back as Oliver reaches his limit, digging his own nails into Isaac’s thighs, hearing him groan, feeling him pulse and clutch moments before he bellows through clenched teeth.

He will be retrospectively very grateful that his high windows are overlooked by nothing but sky, the view encompassing thick trees, as he bucks beneath their attentions, laid flat on that mercifully soft, thick rug, collecting a whole new selection of marks, losing all control over his volume as they use tongues and teeth and clever, spit-slick fingers to bring him to a quick, but seemingly endless, climax, head ringing, staring wildly at the ceiling and between them as they usher him gently back to earth.

“I’m going to have to shower again,” says Henry, voice a little woolly.

“Nah,” waves Isaac, eyes wandering somewhat between slow blinks. “Who’d know?”

“_I_’d know.”

“You need to be able to walk first,” Oliver points out, lifting his head to squint them into view.

Henry groans. “I concede,” he says, reaching up and slapping Isaac’s thigh lightly. Isaac is the only person who’s made it back to the sofa. Henry has his back to it and is, at least, sitting upright, legs tangled with Oliver’s.

“To what?”

“The thing you do with your tongue.”

“Oh. Oh no, mate – that ain’t _the thing_ I do with my tongue.”

Henry blinks slowly and Oliver feels laughter well through him like bubbles in sun-struck syrup. He lets the back of his head thump back down to the rug. He’s vaguely thinking how glad he is that the cleaner was in yesterday. He’s probably supposed to feel guilty for having a cleaner. He really isn’t right now.

“So, wait…” starts Henry, wobbles his head around to look up at Isaac.

“_You_ know.”

“No.”

“You _remember_…” says Isaac, meaningfully, as their eyes meet.

The air clangs, Henry’s mouth dropping open and his eyebrows rising in the middle like a child. Oliver struggles up onto his elbows. The others’ breath is coming a little heavy and their eyes are locked.

“Yes,” breathes Henry.

“Yeah, you do.” Isaac is barely louder.

“Porthos,” says Oliver, almost before he knows he’s going to. The man’s head whips around and Henry makes a breathy sound right on the edge of a whimper. Aramis. His name. His name is Aramis. The things seen and spoken in the dim and shifting hours of dawn, mired in sleep deprivation, adrenalin come-down, and an incomparable sex high, are still true in the broadest daylight.

Porthos’s expression is somewhere between panic and triumph. His left hand clenches on the sofa while his right runs continually over his hair. His mouth forms the shape of “Wh–” several times until he licks his lips, closes his eyes, visibly controls his breathing.

They wait. “Are we doing this now?” His eyes open slowly, filled with caution, and something like pain. And something else like hope.

Aramis’s gaze turns to Athos. As though he’s their leader. They’re both– They’re waiting. They–

Shit.

He takes a fortifying breath, finds himself answering, crisp and decisive: “We do need to talk about this, but I would suggest later. It needs to be all three of us together.” His gaze slides to… come on… to Henry’s. “You have a meeting.”

“Can’t you cancel?” asks Isaac.

Henry’s face creases. “No. No, I really can’t. I wish…” He sighs. Slumps. “Actually, maybe that’s a good thing. Some time that’s…”

“Normal?” Oliver suggests, winces inwardly for it. But Henry gets it. They both do, nodding.

Their collective breath eases. “Okay,” says Isaac. “But… later, yeah?”

“Assuming,” he reminds him, “you’re not working or answering some interesting questions.”

His face creases. “Bollocks.”

“I’ll come straight back,” promises Henry.

Isaac heaves himself to his feet. “And I’d better check my phone.” He heads for the bedroom, lumbering a little.

Henry lets out a happy sigh, twisting to watch. “That’s a magnificent arse.”

He can’t help but agree. Clambering to his feet, he finally spots his tracksuit trousers, wedged halfway down the back of the sofa, clearly having been sat on by Isaac latterly. He suspects that, for once, he’ll be fine with wearing clothes that smell of someone else.

He’s managed one leg when Isaac shouts “Fucking hell!” He doesn’t sound distressed, so, while Henry skitters towards the bedroom, he continues, knowing he’ll be apprised soon enough.

Distant conversation followed by “Look!” and “Fucking _hell!_” pulls a lopsided smile to his face. He ambles towards them, as bare footsteps squeak across the wooden floor in his direction.

“Well?”

Isaac and Henry’s faces are comically identical expressions of slant and tight lips. “Short version or long version?”

“Whatever’s easiest.”

Isaac takes a deep breath, looks at Henry, who cocks head and eyebrow at him. He faces Oliver again, gestures at his phone. “Dar– _Char_lie messaged me. A lot. Lester’s been arrested, for one thing.”

“Oh. Right. Did th–?”

“They caught up with him having loaded his van with personal effects, halfway down his drive,” says Henry,

“Idiot,” puts in Isaac. “He should have either just run for it, or, what’s the word? Brazened it out. Told ’em they’d woken him up for a start.”

“Difficult to do with Charlie’s evidence.”

“True.”

“And what,” asks Oliver, as patiently as he can, “was Charlie’s evidence, exactly?”

“That thing he was sent to get?” prompts Henry.

“A USB,” finishes Isaac.

“And…”

“It seems to do something to the cameras.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” says Henry, “but how does Charlie _know_ all of this? The USB I get but… ohh…”

“Verity?” puts in Oliver.

“She must have followed the police.”

“Or has access to a radio scanner.”

“She was fun,” grins Henry.

“That one Charlie-boy was making blushy faces at?” asks Isaac.

“The very same.”

“Very _focused_,” says Oliver, who’d also found himself liking her, despite – or because of – her various provocations.

“Easy, chaps,” says Isaac, one eyebrow rising.

Henry winks. “Purely hands-off appreciation, I assure you. Too young, for one thing. Besides, I always have admiration for people who _push_ like that.”

“So you’re a pushover?” suggests Oliver.

“_I_’ll push you,” offers Isaac.

“Oh, please do,” smirks Henry.

Oliver clears his throat. “When’s that meeting?”

“Bollocks.”

Isaac prises a cross-looking Henry’s fingers off his arm. “Go on, then. Get your kecks on.”

“Aye, sir.” He quirks an eyebrow their way, and turns smartly on the ball of his foot, swaying unhurriedly towards the bedroom.

“Damn,” says Isaac, softly, head tilted slightly, taking in the view. Oliver, drawing alongside, agrees.

Swallowing, he asks: “Anything else?”

“Er? Oh, about last night… the robbery?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Police are gonna want to talk to me pretty soon, I reckon. Amazed they haven’t rung yet, if I’m honest.”

“Maybe they wanted to let you sleep.”

“You’ve not had much contact with the police, have ya?”

“Hah. Maybe I’m a terrible, er…”

“Can’t even think of anything convincing, can ya?”

He scrunches his mouth. “Nope.”

“Honestly?” Isaac looks at him with a helpless kind of expression. “Thank fuck, actually.” He chuffs a small, voiceless laugh through his nose and Isaac smiles softly at him, cupping his cheek. “Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

He feels amusement drop away as his temperature rises. “Oh. Um…”

Isaac shakes his head. “I swear: I’m never going to get enough of making you blush.”

“Is that a promise?” he hears himself saying, and heats all the harder for it.

Isaac grins hugely. “_Gorgeous_.” Then his smile drops away. “Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“Are we… Hm. Are we definitely going to talk about all this…” his hand drifts out from his side, palm-up. “Weird shit?”

He pulls his thoughts into some kind of order. “Short version or long version?”

“Whichever.”

“Yes. Because…” he sighs, chest full, suddenly. Isaac waits, hands on his hips. “Because I’ve never had a relationship longer than… days? A couple of dates? And never wanted anything else. And now? This ‘weird shit’ is clearly part of wanting more, wanting… wanting all you can offer me. Both of you. And I’m fucking _terrified_,” he rushes, mirthless laughter escaping, “but I’m not stopping now, unless you, er…” he peters out.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, I just– I wanted to be sure you were sure, is all.”

He nods, tight-lipped.

“Oh, stop gushing, the pair of you, _please!_” They turn to see Henry, fully dressed, striding towards them, strap of his bag already crossing his chest.

“We’re definitely getting you a hat,” says Isaac.

Henry’s face slants. “I’d probably just lose it.”

“Then we’ll buy you another,” says Oliver, promptly. “Got everything?”

He nods, looking smaller, somehow, suddenly.

“I’ll see you out,” he says.

“Um. Please don’t. I just– Hm. Goodbyes are difficult enough, and I always take ages, and your neighbours might wonder.”

“Let them.”

“No, seriously, Oliver. Please just… let me go here. And, um, I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s probably a couple of hours, max,” his face screws up, making him look younger, somehow, “and I’ll be back afterwards. I’ll, er, it’s only in town. But, um. Yes. Look. Er…”

Isaac, rolling his eyes, takes him by the shoulders and propels him towards the door, where he, predictably enough, pushes him against the wall beside it and kisses him breathless, drawing back and smiling. “Better?”

“Nearly…” He casts a sly, hot look at Oliver, who finds himself drawn into the space Isaac hurriedly vacates, pressing in close and kissing Henry as slowly as he can bear, keeping everything warm and indulgent; a promise, should he want one.

Henry slumps a little when he draws back, and he brushes a gentle thumb across his cheekbone, feeling him smile, returning it just as minutely.

“Did you mean what you said?” murmurs Henry, looking up through his eyelashes.

He feels his own smile broaden, warm and more ready than it’s been in a long time. “Probably. When?”

Henry is, of all things, blushing. “Earlier, um…”

Hmm. “Do you mean when I threatened to tie you up?”

“Oh! Oh, I’d, um,” he rallies what look like very scattered thoughts with a great effort. “That’s not actually what I was, um, but actually, that’s definitely one to revisit if you, er, that is–”

“I hate to remind you,” says Isaac, “but you’re running low on time.”

Henry takes a deep breath through his nose. “I actually meant when, er, when Isaac was demonstrating what is apparently _not_ his tongue thing.”

Oliver is trying not to show his amusement at how difficult Henry is finding expressing whatever desire is on his mind (three ‘actually’s and a bonus ‘definitely’!). He attempts a rescue: “You mean when he was going down on you and I said–”

“Some terrible, _wonderful_ things, yes.”

_When we’re completely ready for it, I’m going to fuck you_, he’d said. _Hard and deep_. Henry had moaned for this, tugging a little to feel his hair pulled a touch more, which was all the incentive Oliver had needed. _I’ll take my time getting you ready_, he’d continued. Hours_, if necessary, tongue and fingers, building _ever_ so slowly… I wonder how long we can keep you on the edge of climax… What do you think?_ He’d whimpered in reply, eyes wide and eyebrows high in the middle._ I know one thing: by the time I enter you, you’ll be begging for my cock, Henry, that gorgeous face screwed up, that magnificent voice ragged, pleading._ Both of the others had groaned for this, Henry’s hips rocking helplessly, increasingly wild gaze torn between the pair of them, Isaac’s fingers tightening against him.

He’d come not long after this, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. Oliver had treasured being able to see this, much as he suspected Henry had enjoyed being able to see Isaac’s and his faces respectively this time.

He cocks his head now, smiling into Henry’s eyes, opens his mouth and takes a deliberate breath. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I meant it, if you want me to.”

“Oh Christ, yes please.”

“Well then, when we’re ready, that’s what we’ll do.”

Henry, looking away, mutters something about being _pretty ready right now_, but he smiles brightly at Oliver, kisses him soundly, and pulls Isaac in for his own farewell, Isaac slipping his hand between them along his waist. He heaves a deep breath, straightening away from the wall. “I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

“We’ll be here.” Beside him, Isaac nods.

“Okay.” Another deep breath. He pulls the door open. “Later. A couple of hours at most. Okay?”

Oliver smiles and nods. Henry, face an interesting wash of emotions, nods back, eyes sliding between them, turns and closes the door softly behind him. His footsteps fade along the corridor and Oliver feels something fade with him, hears that little voice saying _this is why you avoided this for so long_.

He tells it to fuck off.

“Wait,” says Isaac. “What does Henry _do?!_”

He shrugs, and Isaac dives past him to stick his head out and shout down the corridor: “What do you _do?!_” He pulls it back in. “What did he say?”

“‘What do you _think?!_’”

“Right. Any ideas?”

“Too many.” Isaac laughs and slaps him on the arm for this, and he smiles right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a small break (poetry commissions, events, and the like, conspired against me), then started writing again in earnest last night, where I realised that the characters were displaying, all too transparently, my own difficulty in saying goodbye to them. I’ve [jabbered about it on my tumblr](https://animanightmate.tumblr.com/post/189728074095/wipping), and my conclusion today appears to be that I’m probably going to give you one more chapter after this. I am not, however, discounting further works in this universe. Isaac, for one, has a lot of things he wants to say…


	22. In Retentis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more sexytimes, and some rather dirty talk, but again: nothing explicit (to my mind, anyway). Check tags for changes.

“Are you sure it’s okay to hang out here?”

He blinks, frowning, at him. “Of course. I’m going to have to do _some_ work, though.”

“Oh, course. Yeah. Just, um,” he picks up the dressing gown and pulls it on absently while looking around the room, “just point me at your TV and…” his face tightens ruefully as it returns to him. “Ah, I see. Well, do you have a charger that fits this?” Oliver peers at the base of his phone and nods. “Well then, sorted. I’m guessing you’re not really a magazines kinda bloke.”

“Not as such. I think I’ve still got the latest TEJ, but– _The Economics Journal_,” he explains.

Isaac smirks. “I’m guessing a layman’s gonna find it a bit dry…?”

He rolls his eyes. “Probably. You’re welcome to anything on the bookshelves.”

“Suppose it’s too much to hope you’ve got any Jack Vance?”

“Probably.”

“Bugger. Well, I’ll just browse, then. Pick something that strikes my fancy.”

“Anything you like, just, um…”

“Don’t crack the spines? Drop pizza grease on the pages?”

“The spines on the ones I care about are already cracked. But no to grease. Please. I’m just going to fetch my laptop. Sit here with you?”

“Course.” Then he lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, eyes stuttering. “Hmm. Actually, I don’t think I’ve got the…” he waves his right hand near his temple, “brainspace for reading right now. I’m about ready for another nap, I don’t mind telling you.”

“Ah. This must be, what, 3am for you?”

“Something like that.”

“Then nap. I’ll wake you when Henry gets back.”

Isaac smiles tiredly. “Thanks.”

He manages a surprising amount of work, curled around his laptop and, later, some pizza. When Isaac wanders out, about three hours later, stretching and snuffling over the sound of a flushed toilet, wrapped in his dressing gown again, he silently hands him the rest of the box, and the fresh glass of water he’d already set aside.

“Hnks,” he mumbles, thumping onto the sofa. Oliver nods and returns to his screen. Reviews are tiresome, at times, but they keep his name in circulation for something other than fist-waving and dire prognostications.

“Nice glasses.”

“Thanks.”

“Makes you look… distinguished.”

“That’s _exactly_ the compliment I aim for at all times.”

Isaac chuckles, frowns, fishes in his pocket. “Heard from him?”

“No.”

“Does he have your number?”

“Er…”

“_Oliver…_”

“Whether or not he does, I don’t have his.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do.”

“He, er, doesn’t know that, though.”

Oliver blinks, turns to Isaac, looking at him over the top of his glasses. “More sleight of hand?”

“I might’ve got his phone when I said goodbye.”

“Then copied his number and returned his phone while ki–? no, while _we_ were saying goodbye.”

“Yeah.” Isaac scratches his stomach absently, only slightly chagrined. “Should I message him?”

“Are you worried?”

“Little bit.”

“Then yes.”

Isaac looks at him sidelong.

“What?”

“Anyone ever tell you how refreshingly decisive you are?”

He catalogues, blinking rapidly as his eyes scroll towards the ceiling. “No.”

Isaac sniffs. “Fair play.” He taps rapidly on his screen, and Oliver’s phone chimes from the kitchen.

“Did you just message me, or was that a very peculiar coincidence?”

“Messaged both of you.”

“Is this WhatsApp again?”

“Yeah. You can do groups with it.”

Oliver sighs, more heavily than anticipated, hauls himself off the sofa, folding his glasses onto the keyboard.

“Sorry.”

“No, well, I also need the bathroom.”

“Ah, right.”

While there, he brushes his teeth, decides to put more clothes on, returns to find Isaac frowning at his screen, doubles back to the kitchen to retrieve his own.

“What?”

“Check it.”

Strolling towards the sofa, he reads: 

**Hey it's Isaac.** **  
** **And Oliver.** **  
** **What's up?**

**👋🏼👋🏼** **  
** **Hmm.**  
**If that’s really Oliver, he'll know what to send.**

His eyes roll before he can stop them.

“What’m I missin’?”

He slots himself down between Isaac and the laptop, searches among unfamiliar territory, tilts his screen and sends **😚**.

Isaac barks a laugh, sends 😆

**😊😘🥰** **  
** **🤔 But how can I be ** ** _sure_ ** ** unless I see a selfie?!**

Isaac types: **stop pissing about and get backher.****  
****Back here.**

Oliver types: **You can't kiss a 'selfie’.**

** _~HRD is typing…_ **

They wait.

And wait.

Isaac fidgets, fingers tapping on the arm of the sofa. Oliver frowns, and wonders if he should get back to his review.

_Ka-dink!_

**That's what _you_ think. 😉**

Isaac nudges Oliver, then frowns around at him. “Hmm. Either he’s a really slow typer…”

“Or he was interrupted…”

“Or he changed his mind…”

He types: **Who arranges meetings for lunchtime?**

Isaac: **Sadists**

Henry: **Now, now…**

Isaac: **No, but who?**

Henry: **Busy people.**

They frown at each other. Hmm.

Isaac sends: **When you getting back?**

**Soon.** **  
** **Maybe another hour?**

Isaac grins mirthlessly. **Hurry up or we'll start without you.**

**🤤😃That's a shame selfie I ** ** _definitely_ ** ** want to see!**

He types: **What’s a 'shame selfie'?**

**Autocorrect. Sorry. 🙏🏼** **  
** **Look, I'll get back to you shortly, okay?**

Isaac types: **OK****  
****How we gonna fill the time though?**

Henry: **I'm sure you'll think of ****_something_****… 😏😉**

Isaac: **What can you do?**

Henry: **Be patient.**

Oliver: **What DO you do?**

Henry: **You know, this and that…****  
****g2g****  
****Au revoir!**

“Not a slow typer, then.”

“And how does he do italics on this blasted thing?!”

Isaac grins, rolls his eyes. “_That_’s what you took away from this?”

“I also took away that we need to keep you entertained in the intervening time.”

“What about work?”

“Why, are you _that_ keen for me to put the glasses back on?”

Isaac blushes and his face squirms briefly. “Nah,” but he doesn’t meet Oliver’s eye.

He smirks. “Ever tried kissing someone wearing glasses?”

“Yeah, good point. Though we should probably compare, just to be certain.”

“Empiricism _is_ important.”

“Absolutely.” He leans in.

They don’t achieve any empiricism. Though ten minutes later, after Isaac reaches past him to pull the laptop one-handed onto the rug without spilling his glasses, they achieve a slow, horizontal grind of heavy kisses and soft moans. Oliver, hands languid, in constant motion over as much of the man above him as he can reach, body arching up from time to time, finds a corner of his mind in which to be obscurely pleased that his sofa is long enough for Isaac, even while one of his own legs is draped down the side of it and onto the floor while the other is taking just a little too much of his new friend’s shifting weight.

Isaac moves down, pushes Oliver’s teeshirt up, and presses kisses into his abdomen. They’re warm and wet, and he imagines how he must taste of sweat and last night. It’s not an entirely enticing thought, and Isaac notices.

“What? Sorry – ticklish?” He raises his head.

“No. Just thinking: I should probably shower.”

“Only if you want to.”

He thinks back to Henry’s freshness, wants that for himself, thinks further. “Care to join me?”

“Oh, now, that’s _really_ dangerous.”

It is. Especially since, warm and slippery, heavy with steam and desire, they agree between undulating gasps that they probably _shouldn’t_ come so soon before Henry’s due back. Isaac lets go, leans his forehead and the side of his fist against the tiles and Oliver, focusing on his own breathing, quietly adjusts the temperature downwards a touch.

“Won’t make much difference,” groans Isaac, but he pulls himself upright with a determined kind of grimace. “Okay, if you do my back I’ll do yours?”

“Deal.” He takes his time, though, circling up to his shoulders along the impressive channel of his spine, and back down again to shamelessly cup and knead his ridiculously perfect arse until Isaac groans like a warning and he pulls back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.

He chuckles. “Right. My turn.” Oliver obediently swivels, feels broad, warm, soapy hands massage the back of his neck, then travel down, squeezing tension from him in clever spirals while he leans his forearms against the tiles and feels thought fade into pure sensation.

Soon enough those strong fingers are cupping him below and behind, spreading his flesh a little. A touch of tension rises in him at this. Warmth blossoms up his back as Isaac leans in. “How long’s it been?” murmurs in his ear.

“Er.”

“A year, you said?”

“About that.”

“Can I…?”

“Er…”

“Touch you there…?” A squeeze of one cheek, the suggestion of a little finger creeping deeper.

“That’s… a whole different question,” he manages.

“What’s that?”

He raises his volume. “That’s a whole diff–”

“Yeah, no, I meant: what do you mean?”

“I’ve. Er. I’ve never, you know… _received_…”

A pause, his hands’ pressure lightening significantly. “Right. So that’s a no, then?”

“I just… I’ve never. Er, obviously this means I have to, haha, hand back my gay card, but–”

“Don’t be daft. Ain’t the be-all and end-all. Heh. Plenty o’ gay blokes never do it… either way, come to that. And from what you said to Henry earlier, you’ve obviously–”

“Yes.”

His voice smiles. “Nice. But the other way…” He pauses again. “Do you _want_ to?”

“I– Ah, I don’t know.”

“Right.” One hand leaves him and the water temperature rises slightly as it returns. “I won’t, you know, push you. Just curious. Sorry.”

“Push me,” he hears himself say, heartbeat thudding. “Go on.”

“Fuck.” He thinks he hears some slightly ragged breathing behind him, but it could be the water’s percussion turning the sound unsteady at the edges. “Hold on – this is about _trust_, innit?”

He takes a deep breath, realisation dawning for him, too. “Yes,” he breathes, nodding heavily.

“Ah.” Lips press into the join of shoulder and neck with a suggestion of teeth. A hand strokes down his front from throat to groin, slotting between his cock and belly, pulling their bodies closer. The thick, hot length slots along his back in turn. “Try and imagine it, then.”

“What?”

Isaac’s voice is rough with feeling, breathing warm on his ear. “Me inside you. Or him. Either of us. Stroking you everywhere – inside and out. How would that be?”

“Oh.” He’s never thought of it that way. Heat erupts and spreads rapidly through his body. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

“Hnnm!”

A chuckle. “Yes?”

“Ah. _Yes_.”

“We’d spend a long time, finding out what you liked, seeing how far you wanted to take it, working it out together.”

“Oh, God,” he moans, pushing back at Isaac.

“Slow down!” But there’s a hard grin in his voice and he grinds his hips against him for one slow roll.

“How about you?”

“Me? I like it both ways, as it happens. All depends who you’re with, obviously. Been a while for me and all, mind.”

“Why do you–? hm. What do you like most about it?”

Isaac kisses his neck and shoulder slowly and thoroughly while he thinks about it. “The heat,” he says, eventually. “You know – _inside you_. Nothing else does that. And I like how _close_ you can be, you know? But then, well, I’m pretty fucking sensitive there, turns out, so I can actually come from it without being touched elsewhere.”

“It’s that, _ohh_,” Isaac’s hand is stroking absently, up and down his torso, “that good for you?”

“Can be. Right person – knows what they’re doing.”

Oliver closes his eyes, imagines Isaac coming to pieces, untouched, as he fucks him. It’s only happened once that he can remember, the guy swearing incredulously and clenching around him in shuddering spasms. He imagines Isaac like that, the curve of his spine as he loses control and pushes back onto him, knowing exactly what his voice sounds like when he comes. Then he imagines that happening to him, feeling that _heat_ inside him, the pleasure, the trust – going pliant in Isaac’s hands, Henry’s hands – feels his breath hitch.

“We should get out, or we’ll get all wr–”

“Yes,” he says, abruptly. “Yes, you can touch me there.”

“Fuck. Er. Okay, I’ll just stroke you – just the outside, yeah?”

“Yes.” He can feel himself grow harder. Evidently Isaac can too, chuckling for it, but kindly, like a conspiracy between them.

“Right,” his voice drops, lips right against his ear again, “so you’d like to try my finger against you, all slippery… and intimate… and _warm_.”

“I’d rather have your tongue,” he blurts before he can catch it, only just resisting the urge to knock his own head against the wall.

He feels him smile. “Right you are.” And, just like that, incredibly, his heat vanishes, and there’s a tug on his hips as Isaac uses him to balance while he rearranges himself. A second later, Oliver feels him kiss down and then past the base of his spine, bringing his tongue into play as he does so, and the resulting sensation steals his breath and weakens his knees.

The sound he lets out is almost entirely alien to him. It’s… plaintive? He pants and whimpers, back curving, and Isaac is clearly encouraged to grip him harder and delve deeper with a curl of tongue that defies his flailing imagination.

The man takes pity on him after a devastating few minutes where, between this new experience, arousal, astonishment, and the white noise/ texture of the falling water and extraction fan, he loses track of time and location, the synaesthesia intensifying so sharply he feels on the verge of losing every division of himself and the rest of the world.

“That’s enough of that, I reckon.” Gentle, firm hands turn him and he sags into his embrace. “So pretty safe to say you’re a brand new fan…?”

“Mmhn!”

The head next to his shakes slowly, and he feels a smile bunch his cheek. “Still don’t quite get why you never tried it, but if it means I’m the first, I’ll take that. Think we need to get you sat down.” He forces his eyes open and gazes up at him. Isaac’s expression heats. “Ooh, none o’ that. Otherwise I’ll forget all about that gentleman’s agreement we had earlier and have you in my grip and coming so hard you forget your own name. Either of ’em.”

He raises an eyebrow at him then leans up for a kiss, which Isaac rather chuckles into before pulling them both upright.

As they leave the bathroom, feeling the wood cool against damp soles, Isaac says: “You should work from home more often.”

“Something tells me I’ll be making the most of being out of term-time this year.”

“Ain’t you got any fancy conferences to go to? I always figured that’s what you lot do all summer.”

He grimaces. “There are a couple coming up.”

“Not your bag?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do you get a plus-one? I reckon Henry’d _love_ scandalising economists…”

“And you wouldn’t?”

Isaac sniffs, scratches the back of his neck. “Believe it or not: I get shy.”

“But you’re a b– ohh… Ah.” It’s another mask, arms crossed, badge on the arm: _you’re not getting in_. Nodding, he scoops wet hair off his face and goes in search of grown-up clothes.

Somehow dressing together is more intimate – or awkward – than undressing, and Oliver finds himself finishing quickly and heading out into the living room in short order. Isaac follows him, squirming slightly and plucking at the fabric through his trousers, seemingly unselfconscious.

“They fit okay?” He can’t help a quick flinch, thinking: _would a normal person ask that?_ Never mind that he’s never in his life before shared underwear with _anyone_.

“Heh. Yeah.” He smirks. “Here, Henry’s gonna be _so_ jealous.”

He shrugs. “Envious, maybe. I can’t see him being jealous.”

Isaac frowns. “There’s a difference?”

“Oh. Yes. This is like your XOR, I suppose. Jealousy is when you want to have something someone else has _instead_ of them. Envy is when you want to have it _as well_.”

“Huh. Well I never.”

“Every day’s a school day.”

“Mate, the last,” he checks his watch, “yeah, twenty-four hours have been more like a fucking PhD.”

He nods slowly. “I have to concur.”

He sniffs, corner of his mouth creasing noncommittally. “You got one of those?”

“I do.”

“Worth it?”

He feels his face tighten. “It’s a lot harder to get on without one.”

“By ‘get on’, you mean: get paid better.”

“Essentially. You have a better choice of jobs.”

“Gotcha.”

“Well, specific types of jobs, obviously.”

“Yeah, obviously.” The fingers of Isaac’s right hand are in motion against his thigh, a rapid alternation between thumb and middle finger while the rest brace. He wrenches his gaze away, a little miserable.

This is the most awkward he thinks he’s felt with Isaac. He doesn’t know how to stop the awkwardness and, knowing very well the many opportunities to say exactly the wrong thing (he can think, immediately, of seven ways in which to sound patronising or just generally further highlight the socio-economic status differences between them), finds himself literally biting his lip to prevent it.

“I’m sorry,” says Isaac, left hand clenching and unclenching rapidly, sounding very like how he’s feeling. “I’m really shit at small talk if I actually, you know, _like_ someone…”

“And there was me thinking it was just me.” He raises a hand, palm-forward. “Just me who was like that, I mean,” he adds rapidly.

“Nah, mate.” His face screws up briefly and he sighs. “Feeling a bit fidgety, like.”

“Hmm.” He cocks his head, considering. Looks out of the window. “Fancy a walk?”

“Er, actually,” his face lightens, “yeah.” He grins, gestures at the view. “You gonna take me in the deep, dark woods, then?”

“Up the back of the allotments, certainly,” he drawls.

Isaac cackles. “Love it!” He claps his hands. “You’re on!”

He shows him the route he uses when he goes for a run – out to the road, back the way they’d come, passing the wall where Isaac had pinned Henry, then along the brook that gives its name to Brooklands Avenue, shallow and brown, darting with the occasional fish and much less occasional insect. In the breathless heat beyond the dappled shade they stroll in, the allotments hum, giving way to something a deal less regimented he keeps meaning to look up and then never does.

Isaac, of course, knows what it is. “The Empty Common.”

“Er…”

“I know – anything but, right? But that’s its name. Communal allotments, basically. Fancy getting your hands dirty, growing summink? Can’t afford a private one or don’t have time or energy for it by yourself?” He gestures. “Empty Common.”

“Oh.”

“Never actually been; heard about it, though.” He sniffs appreciatively at the layered air. “Nice.”

They crush themselves to one side for a cyclist, who thanks them absently.

“You come here much, then?”

“It’s a good place for a run.”

“_Really?!_”

His face scrunches. “It’s better than the road.”

“Guess so. You probably want to go up the Backs, though.”

He nods. Other people have told him this before, and it’s another thing to look up, buried in the teetering list.

“For a small city there’s a lot to…” he waves his hand vaguely, “encompass. No. Well, there’s a lot, anyway.”

“It’s dense.”

“Yes.” Compact, layered, rich with history.

They walk a little further. Unlike Henry, Isaac is perfectly capable of not talking, though he reaches out to touch the trees, runs his fingers through green fronds and along fences, hums under his breath. Oliver finds he wants to walk slightly behind him (prepared to use the excuse of the narrowness of the path), watch him explore with as many of his senses as he can cram his surroundings into. He’s enjoying this cynicism-free Isaac, one leaning into a newness that isn’t danger. He starts plotting – little notes he’s secreting in various corners of his mind about experiences Isaac may find new, so he can watch him do this over and over.

The man in question turns, grinning, saying “We should prob– what?”

“What?”

“What you smiling at, then?”

Oliver had been joking with himself that something Isaac may well find completely new is _hills_, but doesn’t know how to say, finds himself utterly struck dumb by the sheer vibrancy of the person in front of him. It’s different from Henry’s compassionate, inquisitive, febrile energy, but similarly it’s something he wants to keep touching for as long as… as anyone will allow him.

“You,” he answers, before he can find something more articulate.

“Me?”

“You.” He raises his sunglasses to the top of his head so he can properly look him in the eye. “It’s my first time seeing you in sunshine. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“Oh.” Isaac looks perilously like he’s blushing again.

“I haven’t told you yet, in words, have I?”

“What?”

“You’re gorgeous too.”

“Oh, fuck off…” He scratches his head, arm in front of his face.

“Will you accept ‘magnificent’?”

“Seriously – I’m fucking awful with compliments.”

“Learn to get better at them,” he tells him, drawing closer. “You’ll be receiving at least as many as you give out, even if I have to write them down to circumvent me stuttering.”

“Circum–” Isaac mutters, curving his hand in mid-air. “Oh, right.”

Oliver smiles at that, can’t help it, feeling his eyes prick a little, hopelessly fond. “I don’t think I’ve made this properly clear: I want to get to know you better. I _never_ do that.”

“So I’m special.”

“Yes.” He puts his hands on his shoulders. “Very.”

Isaac smiles, then nuzzles into Oliver, who nuzzles back, slipping his arms around his neck and leaning into a light brush of kiss, eyes closing. He can smell a dozen green things he can’t name, and the nod of roses from further up the path, meadow grass, moss, the water, his own shower gel, and Isaac, a scent he’s coming to associate with _safe_ incredibly swiftly. The faint sound of water ripples clever fingers over them, and he’s absolutely at home.

He feels Isaac smile, then his lips part against his and the kiss deepens decorously, summer-scented; slow and delicious.

“Excuse me…”

He looks around. An woman (Cambridge Older White Lady Mk 3 – sensible, weatherbeaten face; androgynous clothing, no makeup, comfortable shoes; sounds like an eccentric duchess straight out of Enid Blyton; possible Green Party member; could be any age from fifty-five to ninety-five) stands patiently with two sedate dogs, one of whom has already taken the opportunity to sit. He and Isaac are occupying far too much of the already narrow path.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, disentangling himself.

“Oh, no rush,” she says, twinkling. “Lovely day.”

“Isn’t it?” agrees Isaac, sounding both amused and embarrassed.

“Your companion looks like he might be overheating,” she remarks, moving past them as they press into the fence, dodging nettles. “Come on!” She tugs at the leads. “I’ll let them run later,” she confides, “when it gets a little wider.”

The dogs snuffle at them as they trot unhurriedly past, and Oliver automatically stoops a little, presents the back of his hand to them. He gets a quick lick and panting grin from one, and a sneeze from the other, which seems reasonable. He looks up at Isaac, who grins. “Someone’s popular.”

“Maybe it’s your scent he likes on me…”

“Heh.”

He can’t be sure, but he thinks the woman chuckles at this as well. They watch the three of them stroll along the path then look at each other.

“You were saying…?”

“I was?”

“Before I so rudely interrupted you with compliments.”

“Hah. Yeah. Oh, yeah, I was sayin’ we should get back, in case Henry’s back already.”

“Ah. Yes. Good point.” He starts walking back towards the road. “I imagine he’d ring.”

“I hope so,” he replies, some of that tension back in his voice. “Anyway, yeah…”

As they pass a bend in the brook, Isaac says: “Here, Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“Ain’t that your building?”

“Mmh… Yes. But–”

“So we could just go across here.”

_Here_ is an informal ford of branches and rocks stretching precariously to the gap in the fence on the other side. He eyes it uneasily.

“Hmm.”

“Look at it this way: what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Er, I fall off and…” he looks at the short distance, the squishy bed of the brook, “twist my ankle? Maybe soak my phone?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh.” This is something built by children for children. For the kind of child he never was. _Well, you do like bruises_, he reminds himself, while a cool, clear voice lays out the best route across in a mildly scornful tone – he’s not exactly risking life and limb, only potential embarrassment in front of a man who… _has cheerfully put his tongue to all sorts of places on you and clearly wants to do more_. “Put it like that…” he says aloud.

They make it over, wobbling and laughing, arms splayed wide, Isaac first, to show him how it’s done, branches creaking alarmingly under him (“Just go fast – don’t think!”), and catching him when he gets to the other side, eyes sparkling. It’s perhaps not surprising that Henry doesn’t see them when they round the corner of the building from the brook’s side, and Isaac waves Oliver back with a hiss and a mischievous grin.

They lean and peek, suppressing giggles. Bike leant against the wall, Henry is peering up at the building, frowning at the plate of numbered buttons, gazing down at his phone, one hand at his chest. Then his body turns slightly as he looks up again, and the laughter drains from them.

Oliver pulls Isaac back behind the corner.

“What the _fuck?!_”

“I– I’m going to check again.”

Crouching, having learned from last night, he peers out at knee height, then returns.

Isaac crouches beside him. “So?”

“I saw what you saw.” His hand goes to his throat. He’s having some trouble processing it. His mind keeps blanking out.

“So does that mean…?”

“What else _can_ it mean?”

Isaac claps his hand to his pocket, then pulls out his phone, which is buzzing angrily, cursing between his teeth. A swift swipe of thumb. “Hi.”

This close, with the phone turned up as loudly as Isaac seems to need it, Oliver can hear every word, backed up by the fainter version from around the corner. “Hi, I’ve forgotten the number of Oliver’s flat. Idiot. Sorry. Anyway, I’m back, can someone buzz me in?”

“Sure, I’ll just ge’im. Dja’ave a good meetin’?”

“Ehh. It was a bit long for my tastes. Good to be back. Looking forward to Oliver’s air-conditioning, if I’m honest.”

“Oh, jus’ the air-con, eh? Nuffin else?”

“Let me in and I’ll show you.” Oliver closes his eyes for a long blink – the playful, bantering tone, smooth and beautiful. Fucking hell.

“Hold up.” Isaac mashes the phone to his chest, widens his eyes at Oliver, who shrugs, head shaking minutely. Isaac pulls a face, lifts the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, no, he says it don’t work – ’e’s gonna come dahn an’ fetch ya.”

“Oh! Really? Sh-ts– _great!_” he manages, slightly too tightly to be authentic. “I’ll see you very shortly!” Isaac stabs the call closed. A faint, emphatic “_Shit!_” comes from the side of the building and Oliver looks meaningfully at Isaac, rises, and strides off towards their friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Retentis = among things held back Another Latin term used in legal terminology, this time to describe documents kept separately from the regular records of a court for special reasons.
> 
> I was _very_ tempted to call this in omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro, which means: Everywhere I have searched for peace and nowhere found it, except in a corner with a book, a quote from [Thomas à Kempis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_%C3%A0_Kempis), about whom I know nothing yet except as originator of this quote.
> 
> One more chapter to go. I was wrong earlier, but there’s _definitely_ only one more chapter now.


	23. In Fine

Their friend who, bent over, slightly turned from him, is wrestling with something at his throat and cursing vehemently in what may well be Portuguese for all Oliver knows.

“Hi,” he says, far more mildly than he would have expected, feeling Isaac fall into place behind him.

“Hi!” A big, over-airy grin twists towards him, left hand behind his back. “Where’d you spring from?”

“Whatcha got there?” asks Isaac.

“Hmm?” The unconvincingly innocent face is one that Oliver – or, well, presumably Athos? Don’t think about that – is all-too familiar with.

“Behind your back,” he says, coolly, continues to gaze neutrally at the man who blinks far too rapidly at him.

“Errm.”

A huff from Isaac and he’s suddenly the other side of Henry, lifting something out of his hand which he tries to retain for two passes then gives over with an air of abrupt resignation.

“The fuck…?”

It’s a curved strip of white material, about a foot long with rounded ends, somewhere between an inch-and-a-half and two deep – springy, like plastic, from the look of how it behaves as Isaac raises and flourishes it – but matt, as if made of fabric.

“Care to explain?” asks Oliver, hands on his hips, hearing that coldness in his voice, trying to push warmth into it, and only coming out more teacher-like.

“Ah, I just, um,” he fusses with his shirt, opening it a little further.

“Must have been warm,” says Oliver, slowly, his arms folding across his chest, unbidden, observing how the points of Henry’s collar are bent, “cycling in that in this weather. Amazed you didn’t notice.”

“Maybe you get used to it,” says Isaac. He, too, has adopted a slower tone, and there are many layers in it: anger and hurt, along with some kind of determination.

“Maybe, um, look, could we take this inside, perhaps?”

Oliver stares at him several beats too long then blinks, slowly, turning away. “Fine. Come on, then.”

“Can, er, may I bring my bike inside?”

“Of course.”

Other than Isaac holding the door after Oliver’s opened it, they make no move this time to help him, and he silently wrestles it under the stairs again. It’s the silence that gets to Oliver most. Henry’s not even trying smiles or jokes or anything to disarm them, just penitentially getting on and dodging eye contact.

It’s horrible.

And he can’t think what to do about it. So he says nothing, just leads the way up the stairs, doggedly mounting step after step, trying not to compare with the chatty trip up in the elevator the first time, the laughing clatter down with Isaac earlier, half-racing each other. By the time he gets to the top of the stairs, he realises that, under the shock, he’s mostly feeling hurt. _Betrayed_ is too dramatic, but, by the saints, that’s what it feels like.

And it’s this thought which draws him up short, hurrying on again when Henry nearly crashes into his heels. This stew of angry, unhappy feelings is tangled up with the _weird shit_, and his fist closes painfully hard around his keys at this realisation.

By the saints? Really?

_Get him inside, then you can sort this mess out._

Fine.

Breathing out heavily through his nose, he unlocks the door, ushers them through, exchanging a hard, complex look with Por– with Isaac as he passes.

They stand in a triangle of flicking glances, Oliver with his hands in his pockets, Isaac with his arms folded, white collar still hanging from one hand, Henry fiddling – seeming unable to decide what to do with his hands, and striving not to appear either too confrontational or defensive.

“Well?” asks Oliver at last, as it seems Isaac’s willing to go on glaring and Henry to avoid talking about this for as long as possible.

“I didn’t, um, mean to– well. Er,” starts Henry, his face creasing.

“Lie to us?” asks Isaac, eyebrows raised.

“Well, that’s a bit– I mean…” he says. “_Lie_. Just, um…”

“This is a _dog collar_,” says Isaac, unfolding his arms to shake it in front of his own face.

“Clerical collar, yes. Uh…”

“And–” Isaac stops abruptly, head drawing back, goes a little cross-eyed.

“What?” asks Oliver. Isaac is peering hard at the thing.

He shakes his head, suddenly, looking almost… amused?

“Show me that?” he asks, hand out toward him.

Isaac passes it over, complex expression still on his face, then promptly folds his arms and glares at Henry again, who’s gone very still, lips flattened, fists clenched around the strap of his bag.

Eyes narrowed, Oliver peers at the white collar, then turns it over to gaze at the inside, finally seeing, faint but clear, what Isaac has spotted.

“Henry?”

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Who’s Carol Eades?”

“Ah.”

“Well?”

For a blood-thundering second, Oliver’s convinced that Henry is going to tell them that his first name is, in fact, Carol, and that, contrary to his talk of South America and Scotland, he’s actually of Romanian extraction and that Henry is his middle name and easier to tote around the UK, but instead Henry’s look of chagrin deepens and he says: “A friend.”

“A friend.”

“Sort of a colleague.”

“A colleague.”

“In the church where I am involved in the lay ministry.”

Oliver blinks hard for this and looks across to Isaac, who shakes his head, eyes rolling slightly before staring at Henry again.

“A lay minister.”

“Yes. Kind of. It’s more–”

“Do lay ministers wear clerical collars?”

“No.”

“And why were you wearing Carol Eades’s collar?”

“Um.” Henry’s face twists. “Sort of… as a joke?”

“A joke.”

“Yes?”

“Explain.”

“They– Um. I borrowed it. I, uh, thought it would be an easier way into telling you that I’ve started getting involved in lay ministry again. Chaplaincy stuff. Occasionally. Probably. And I also…” he takes a deep breath, wincing slightly, rushes on: “thought it would be funny to see your face, having seen it on the security monitor, then it not being there by the time I got up to the flat and you wondering if you’d imagined it and now I’m saying this aloud it sounds anything _but_ funny, but then you were going to come and fetch me and that would be less… ambiguous, and I realised it was a terrible idea anyway, so I started to take it off and it turns out you weren’t even in the building and I’m, uh, I’m _really_ sorry.”

“Sorry,” says Isaac.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“Um, for freaking you out?”

Isaac sighs. “We don’t care about _that_.” He looks over at Oliver. “Well _I_ don–” Oliver shakes his head gently, “okay, we _don’t_ – though we might a bit – but it’s not that. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It just never… came up?”

“You never _brought_ it up,” corrected Oliver. “Throughout our conversations, you talked – at _length_ – about past occupations in far-flung places, and you _hinted_ that you were an academic.”

“I _am_ an ac–”

“And you didn’t tell Oliver you were a poet.”

“It felt a bit pretentious.”

“And telling _me_ didn’t feel pretentious?!”

“Actually, no, “ Henry shrugs, “I didn’t worry _you_’d think I was showing off.”

“Right.”

“Look, I’d just told him I’d worked out who he was, and then going: ‘Ooh, I’m a poet, don’t you know?’ would have felt like ‘And me, and me!’”

“You’re a famous poet?”

“Not exactly.”

“But…”

Henry shrugs again. “But nothing. Some people buy my stuff, some people like it, others–”

“Find it uncomfortably metaphysically erotic?”

“Well–”

“He means ‘wanky’.”

The others stare at Oliver for a long moment until he raises an eyebrow and Isaac is the first to snigger, nearly straight-faced, shaking a finger at him. He smirks back, gazes mock-innocently at Henry, who looks crossly amused, or vice versa.

“Come on, then,” says Isaac, sniffing, “what else?”

“I– what?”

“There’s more,” he says, looking across at Oliver, who nods. “The chaplaincy thing?” His face twists, head shaking slightly: _nah_. “There’s more than that, or you’d have told us.”

“It’s not embarrassing enough being a poet?” Henry’s trying to lighten the mood.

Isaac’s having none of it. “Not in this city.”

“I’ve barely lived here a couple of years.”

“And the places you’ve lived,” puts in Oliver, “hardly have cultures which fail to value poetry.” Henry stares at him. He stares back. Henry loses.

His eyes roll off to the side and he slumps. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It’s just,” his gaze returns and he straightens again, “why do people have to be defined by what they _do_ instead of what they _are?_”

Isaac’s eyes narrow for this bit of philosophical or semantic jugglery. “All depends what you’re going for. Like: some people would say I’m a bouncer–”

“And others that you’re a drummer…” Henry spreads his hands like: _see?_

“_And others_,” Isaac continues, loudly, “would say that’s what I _do_, but that what I _am_ is black, or queer, or a violent tool of corporate hegemony,” Henry blinks rapidly for this, “or a criminal – _once a juvenile delinquent…_” he ends in a sing-song tone.

“Oh, now, look–”

“And some people would say,” adds Oliver, “that I’m a socio-economics lecturer, but others that I’m posh, or gay, or a champagne socialist, or–”

“Okay, _fine_. I’m a poet. I’m a pansexual, cis man; I’m a widower, essentially; I’m a practising Christian; I’m polyamorous; I’m Not From Around Here; I’m a philosophy lecturer, a theology lecturer, and a literacy tutor, okay?”

“Bloody hell,” says Isaac. “How dja fit all that in?”

“_Tightly_,” he says. “But it’s summer, so I get to take two of those off the list, while at the same time hoping I get given another contract come September.”

He cocks his head at Isaac. “How long is it since I’ve had a temp kind of contract? If ‘nine months at a time’ counts, then this year, okay?”

“Where do you teach literacy?” asks Oliver, as mildly as possible.

“Good point – I should get in touch with them, see if they’re still up for summer cover from me this year.”

“You teach in prisons,” says Isaac, abruptly.

“That’s right. Correctional facilities in general, actually, but the ones in these parts are pretty far out, and a pain to get to on public transport. Oh, and sometimes I work as an interpreter. There are on-call services that you can sign up to.”

“In other words,” says Oliver, slowly, “despite us finally living in the same city, the chances of us both being free during the day at the same time in the same place were phenomenally low.”

Henry blinks at him. “That had occurred to me, but I thought it might be a bit too…” he shrugs, “full-on to say out loud.”

Another thought has struck Oliver hard: while he was looking after… _Del, he called her_ (his eyes close), was he working as well, or did he have to choose between income and care…? _Does he fill his hours now just to pay all the bills or to keep from thinking too much?_ (He opens his eyes.)

He takes a deep breath. “Henry, will you accept my apology?”

“Er. Okay. What for?”

“Well, for one, not actually _asking_ you about your life earlier,” like a normal person would, “but also for treating you with such suspicion as soon as you did something that seemed… _difficult_.” It’s not the right word, but it’ll do. “It’s not like I’ve got any reason to assume you’d be doing something ruinous–”

“Actually,” puts in Henry, “I think you might have.”

“What?” Isaac’s face is screwed tight again.

“You too, actually. I think… I think I – the I I _used_ to be – let you down. More than once. If– Hm. If this is real, then I have to follow my instinct. And I keep wanting to apologise to you, make things up to you.”

“You don’t need to.” Porthos’s voice is soft.

“But–”

“Trust me – you don’t.”

He turns to Athos, who shakes his head. “Whatever you think you are carrying, brother, you owe me nothing. All debts are paid.” He knows this like he knows his own… hands.

Aramis closes his eyes for a long moment, just breathing, loose arms falling to his sides. “That means a lot to hear.”

“So we _are_ doing this now?”

“I think,” says Athos, slowly, “that this may be something we have to do, off and on, for the rest of our lives.”

“And,” says Aramis, eyes opening to twinkle at them, “we have a much longer life expectancy than before!”

“Plenty of time to work it out,” says Porthos, grinning finally. “Unless you’re thinking of becoming a monk…” and he cocks a sly look Aramis’s way.

Aramis reaches out to punch him on the arm, and suddenly they’re hugging, fierce and hard, like nothing on earth could serve to tear them apart.

He smiles at this, at them, feeling his eyes pricking again, impossibly fond. And for a sweet, strange, _still_ moment, he is both Oliver and Athos, standing wrapped in the love he feels for these incredible men, the wonderful pain of trust and vulnerability, of opening to them (and he blushes for the unbidden images that brings), of a life that’s more than just functional. Then their near arms are unwinding, beckoning, and he steps forward into their embrace, heads bowed together, hands over backs and shoulders, eyes closed, warm and so _safe_.

There’s a suspicion of sniffling from Henry, but also from Isaac, and he smiles, sniffs himself for the renewing prickle, nuzzles them both. Of course, this leads to a raising of chins, a touching of mouths, and Henry’s hand creeping lower. From Isaac’s chuff of laughter, it’s both hands. And the kisses, laughing, turn heated and deeper, until Henry, of all people, breaks off to breathe, laugh softly.

“So,” he grins, challenging, “is anyone going to tell me how you occupied yourselves in my absence?”

“I worked.”

“And I napped.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugs. “We ate pizza.”

“Messaged you.”

“Had a shower.”

“Went for a walk.”

“Sounds… nice…” Henry’s eyes narrow. “Nothing else?”

“We were waiting for _you_.” He pours as much _reasonable_ and _mildly hurt_ as he can manage into his voice, brows high in the middle.

“I mean,” says Isaac, shrugging, “there _may_ have been some kissing.”

“Ah yes. There was the sofa.”

“And the shower.”

“And the path.”

“Yeah, nothing much.”

“Hold on: _shower?!_”

“Mmh,” he replies noncommittally.

“Shower _singular?_”

“_Very_ singular,” says Isaac, voice and smile heating slowly. He looks a touch smug, thinks Oliver.

“I see I have some catching up to do,” muses Henry.

“Well, if you _will_ insist on showering alone…”

“Unnatural, if you ask me,” adds Isaac, eyes twinkling.

Henry sighs and smiles, throwing head and arms back. “Ahh. Why does it feel like I’ve come back home?”

He’s not ready to say it aloud, not quite yet, but he knows. They know.

So many of the questions that have dogged his life have been answered by a chance meeting and some interesting decisions. There are plenty more questions and decisions ahead of him, but he’s content, for now, to let them come in their own time, knowing himself equal to the task, especially with these men by his side again.

“If you’re home,” says Isaac, grinning, “you can make us a cuppa tea, then.”

And Henry, stepping back and pulling a number of brown paper packages from his bag that scatter ecstatic colours of scent across Oliver, tells him that he intends to do just that. Isaac laughs and pushes him towards the kitchen, threatening to Google his poetry while they’re waiting, and Oliver ambles after them, smiling like he’ll never stop, heart full, step sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it’s _done!_ >76k words that I never expected to write, and a ton of peculiar research in the course of about seven weeks.
> 
> #### Thanks and Acknowledgements
> 
> Big, big thanks to all of you who’ve commented, given kudos, done cheerleading, pointed out spelling mistakes, and generally just been ace. Special thanks to thimblerig, who has patiently read my occasional rambling arrghs over the past few weeks and given sage advice (mostly: doooo iiiiit) and inspiration (directly re: the Harry Potter joke in Chapter 20, and accidentally re: my impulse to keep back Henry’s profession(s) until the very last minute).
> 
> And yes: I will be heading back to war shortly. And yes: I may well revisit these modern-day chaps. After all, there’s a trial to come and some further questions to answer.
> 
> In Fine = In/ At the end
> 
> #### Some Notes on Names
> 
> I’ve written [a much longer blog piece on tumblr](https://animanightmate.tumblr.com/post/189801155938/whats-in-a-name) about this, so this is the truncated version (because AO3 end notes are rather too character limited for what I wanted to say, so go there if you want to find out _why_ the characters are called what they’re called).
> 
> **Oliver Montague** = Athos
> 
> **Henry Darian** = Aramis
> 
> **Isaac Bellegarde** = Porthos
> 
> **Charlie Fielding** = D’Artagnan
> 
> **Luke Walden** = Lucien Grimaud
> 
> **Verity Stan** = Constance Bonacieux (or whatever her maiden name was, Dumas…)
> 
> **Mikey “Sticks” Rivers** = Charon
> 
> **Adelaide “Del” Barclay** = Adèle Bessette
> 
> **Chris Anaxagoras** and **Lester Rushford** are both analogous to characters in the show, but I rather think I’ll keep their identities to myself for the moment, as that will have a bearing on the next part. If I do write it. You know, in about a year’s time or so. So if holding your breath is turning you blue, please do feel free to ask me, via tumblr, email or Twitter.

**Author's Note:**

> What even is this? I’m not sure, but I’m enjoying it, and will hopefully update more frequently than has been my wont of late. Feedback, as ever, much appreciated.
> 
> I now appear to be on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/animanightmate). So that’s something else to come out of this venture…


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